


Lifeline

by cathouse_mary



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cancer, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATE 9/6: Again, I apologize for the length of time that ti's taken me to get this one ready. I've been working at my full time job, doing a lot of freelancing, and also started my own company. AUGH. In any case, here's the new bit. I will try my best to run the next chapter out by Thanksgiving here in the US. Thank you all for the comments and the kudos - I love them so and they really help me with the writing.</p><p>Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this art - http://moisca.deviantart.com/art/Kuroshitsuji-AU-Alan-Humphries-Chemotherapy-380136554

It started with a nosebleed.

Alan had them even in childhood so when they began anew in his twenties, he thought very little about them. Indeed, Alan Humphries thought very little about anything but his work as a risk assessment analyst for Bridges Capital Management. He pulled insane working hours, and that night when his nose began to drip in the middle of a meeting with the senior analysts, he just pulled out his pocket square and kept going - but then it didn't stop, and to his horror and embarrassment, it turned into a positive gusher that nothing would alleviate.

Mr. Conti called his car, ushered Alan downstairs holding a wad of paper napkins under his nose and said to the driver, "Lenox Hill hospital emergency room. Floor it." He shut the door, thumped the hood and the driver took off, the 620 horsepower of the Mercedes sedan pushing Alan back into the seat as it raced uptown. A cold knot of dread settled in his stomach when the security guard took a look at Alan getting out of the car and brought a wheelchair to him.

The questions started even before he was properly on a gurney.

"Fill these out, please."

"Did you use cocaine or other inhalant drugs?"

Pulse, temperature, oxygenation.

Gloves. Splatter shields. Gowns. The bloody paper towels in a bag.

"Are you using an inhaler or a decongestant?"

"Please put this on, Mr. Humphries."

"Do you have nosebleeds often? When did they resume? How recently? How severe? Bleeding for more than five minutes?"

Cannula, fluids given, tubes of blood drawn.

And when Alan was alone, the curtains drawn around him for privacy, he lay there in silent shock, trying not to break down. A look at his watch confirmed it was almost midnight, but in Lewiston Idaho, Mom or Dad might still be awake - though his phone couldn't get a signal in here. He was scared. None of his bleeds had ever been that bad. Rolling up in the sheet and blanket, he fell into a thin and troubled sleep.

"Mr. Humphries? I'm Dr. Maples. Your admitting physician contacted me over your bloodwork." Dr. Maples spoke with a lovely Caribbean lilt to her voice, then came over and took a seat next to his gurney. "We would like to admit you tonight, just for some further tests."

Breathe, Alan. Breathe.

"What kinds of tests?" Because if a bloody nose was just a bloody nose, the admitting physician would not have needed to bring in an on-call specialist.

"Bone marrow. Spinal fluid." She gently squeezed his hand. "A high-def ultrasound, so we can look at your liver and spleen. Your admitting physician didn't find any enlargement upon a cursory palpation, but... Mr. Humphries? Is there someone I can call for you? Family? Someone to bring you some things from home?"

The items and circumstances remorselessly added themselves up on Alan's mental spreadsheet. Cancer. They were looking for some kind of cancer.

"No. No, there isn't. There's just me." His chest hurt, and his voice rasped. "Can I do this as an outpatient? I just want to go home."

"Mr. Humphries, I feel that would be against the soundest medical advice that I can give. Please, let us do the tests."

There was paperwork, of course, and at the end of it Alan was in a private room, a computerized IV stand slowly infusing platelets into his bloodstream.

It was one in the morning in Idaho.

He picked up the bedside telephone and dialed.

"Hi! You've reached the Humphries household. Ted, Jeanette, Teddy, Lori, and Deena can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, we'll be sure to call you back. Wait for the beep!"

In the end, Alan couldn't make himself say anything, and he hung up quietly. You really couldn't go home again - even if it was the last place you ever should go.

~

"Good morning, Ronald." The hipster behind the counter at Pearl Street Kitchen was a bouncy kid with two-tone hair, an undercut, and a knit cap that never seemed to leave his head. "Cafe Americano and _pain au chocolat_ , please."

"Missed you the last few days, Alan."

"Just a little under the weather." The pain au chocolate was still warm and steaming in the case, and dusted with a bit of cinnamon sugar this time. The soups were always fresh and flavorful, the sandwiches and pastas satisfying, but Alan would lie down and die for the _patisserie_. The smile faltered on his face at the thought, and could be very glad that Ronald is faced the other way as he made Alan's cafe Americano

"Yeah, that 'flu just hung on, didn't it? Next time you should get your shot." He turned and handed over the brew and bread, taking the money that Alan's set on the counter - tip included. "You have a good one, okay?"

"I will." Or as good as possible when you had to tell your boss that you have a diagnosis of acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Oh, and a 'portacath' implant for long-term chemotherapy. He felt the thing inside of him, poised to drip the medicines directly into his heart. It made Alan want to sit on the floor and have hysterics, but instead he turned away and heads for the door. "You, too."

"Alan?" It startled him, because Ronald the smartass suddenly sounded like a kid. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine, Ronald. And tell your chef that that _pain au chocolate_ smells like heaven."

From there he tooks the short walk to the BCM building, an almost obnoxiously modernized redo of an early Federal that Alan thought more suited to a Benetton store than a capital managment company. Over the past few days, he'd rehearsed this so many times in his head, but given the conversation he'd had earlier with his parents he wasn't so sure that this one was going to be predictable either.

_"Is it AIDS? It's AIDS, isn't it?"_

_"No, Dad. It's called acute lymphoblastic leukemia and-"_

_"I told you! Your mother and I both did! The wages of sin are paid in DEATH-"_

_"You told me that I'd go to hell for being a faggot, but you forgot to tell me that I was at a higher statistical risk for cancer because we were were born and raised downwind of the goddamned motherfucking Hanford Nuclear Reservation!"_

Boy, had that not gone well. Frost wrote that 'Home is the place that, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.' Frost, in the parlance of New York City, didn't know jack shit.

The _pâtissier_ had really outdone himself - Alan's _pain au chocolate_ was smeared with bitter orange marmalade in the bittersweet richness of the chocolate and buttery dough. Add to that it was a gorgeous April morning, warm and full of promise. It was almost surreal that in his briefcase was a stack of papers detailing a regime of treatment, the drugs, radiation, and other therapies that would - hopefully - send him into remission.

"Good morning, Mr. Humphries." Jack the doorman gave the revolving door a push to get it going. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, Jack. Thank you."

And that was about as pleasant and reassuring as the day ever got. His meeting with his superiors was oddly noncommittal, though they expressed concern. Mr. Conti kept the Chief Risk Officer and the Chief Analytics Officer after Alan had been dismissed, and somehow Alan had the feeling that he was being followed by his own personal cloud. It was easy, however, to put everything out of his head and immerse himself in work once in his office. For twenty-eight, he hadn't done too badly.

He had an office with a window, his undergraduate diploma and degrees lined up on the wall, a low six-figure salary, a high six-figure bonus, a fat bank account and a luxe condo in the Financial District to his name. Granted, he earned it by working murderous hours, but when you were the toughest analyst on the Street, you could afford some pretty sweet treats, too. Alan gave himself a Conde Nast life, with tailored Italian cut suits and fine watches, silk ties and fine leather shoes. He took vacations at five-star resorts and hotels, dined in fine restaurants despite a top-line kitchen at home that he barely used. And almost as if to really drive the point home, he owned a custom-made violin from one of the finest luthiers in the world. It rested next to his grandfather Yager's old pawn-shop fiddle, and he played one or the other every night. Even better, he relished his work - he loved his job. The flow of data, the dance of numbers and concepts, the layers of mystery inherent in higher finance and best of all - the hunt.

It was a good life. He didn't want to lose it.

He brought his monitors to life, opening the files and looking for the Black Swans. Alan Humphries could see disaster not in the stars, but in the minutiae of a corporation's books, and he was the best hunter in the business.

It was almost 9:00 at night when he left the office, the lights were still on in Mr. Conti's meeting room, but Alan didn't say good night. He was rather certain that he had not felt this tired or headachy before his diagnosis. The walk home was uneventful, and he found himself hoping he could keep it up once his induction treatment began. His Google searches gave him reason to worry - adults had a 50/50 chance as a group of a five-year survival. Though admittedly the data was for all adults 18 to 65, and not sorted by any other criteria-

He slowed, distracted from his thoughts. The lights were on at the Kitchen and Ronald was outside, lounging in the vestibule of the battered-looking three-story walk-up and smoking what looked to be an electronic cigarette. "Late night, Alan?"

"I had some catching up to do. Are you open so late?" He needed a good feed - his first chemotherapy session was Friday. "If you are, I'd take some stuff to go."

"For anyone else, we're not." Ronald grinned and stowed his cig. "For you, yes. My brother's in the kitchen, and he's a fucking ogre when he's in cooking mode, but I've got an Italian on ciabatta with pesto mayo, some of the roasted tomato and red pepper soup, and white bean salad."

"So he's the mystery chef. I've been coming in here for three years and never seen him." Alan had rather imagined a team of chefs in and out of the narrow brownstone.

"Yeah. He does most of the stuff at night. He runs around a lot during the day."

Whatever else Ronald had to say just sailed right past Alan's ears and into space, because Alan's eyes had hijacked his brain. A man came out of the kitchen dressed in cook's whites, opened up the jacket and rummaged a Manhattan Special out of the cooler. And for a town where you couldn't spit without hitting a good-looking guy, this one just rang every last one of Alan's bells - even bells he didn't know he had. One thing was sure, the guy was not Wall Street, what with sporting a fauxhawk, multipierced ears, and wire-framed glasses in purple titanium. What he was was tall, broad-shouldered, and Alan could have washed his boxers on those abs. His blond hair was unselfconciously dark at the roots, and he had the most amazing blue-green eyes.

"Uh-" Alan blinked and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Ronald. What did you say?"

Ronald was lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "He's single. Really single. And he's gay. And he's my brother. I can introduce you."

Alan's mouth hung flapping for a moment before his Emergency Backpedal gear kicked in. "No. No! I just remembered that I forgot something at... at home! This morning. And. I need it for the office. Tomorrow. I."

The gear stripped itself as Ronald's brother took of the chef's jacket (revealing tatted upper arms and a tank top), then squatted to look into one of the pastry cases (there were no words sufficient to describe his butt). Alan broke a sweat like the proverbial sinner in church.

"Alan. You're shy?" Ronald's smile was huge. "Oh, God. Don't be! Eric's the biggest teddy-bear there is and I'd love to introduce him to a really decent guy-"

"Ah. The thing. I have to go get the thing and I'll see you in the morning and um-" Alan backed away, holding his briefcase in front of him like a shield. "Have a good night and and bye-bye!"

It was probably not the best idea, and the guy was probably everything Ronald claimed for him, but-

Any other time, Alan would have said yes.  

He made it home, fleeing into his apartment as if into a sanctuary, and locked the door behind him.

Right now? Like this? No.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> This chapter: Alan finds out that sometimes everything changes all at once, and sometimes the only thing you have the power to do is watch. Ronnie has concerns. And Eric.

Ron watched the retreat with his jaw dropped. If anyone had told him that Alan, a sharply-dressed and confident guy, would suddenly become the awkward wallflower at the 8th grade dance... 

"Wow, man." He turned and went busting back through the door. "Hey! You're so hot that you made guy literally flail!"

Eric rolled his eyes. "Gimme a fucking break, Ronnie. They're really going for the Fat Bastards, aren't they?"

The Fat Bastard to which Eric referred was two thick oatmeal chocolate-chunk cookies slapped around a vanilla butter-cream frosting center, dipped in dark chocolate, and then again in crushed, salted nuts. Everyone who ordered a Fat Bastard got a free glass of milk and immediately turned seven. 

"Yeah. Guys in suits get that and take off like little Brooks Brothers rockets from the sugar high. Oh, you have two catering orders for mini-desserts trays for Friday, and there's requests for bouillabaisse on Monday again."  Ron nudged his brother with his elbow. "He's nice. A good guy. Single. A Street guy, but not a BSD. A little younger than you are. Really shy."

"Sounds good. Date him yourself." Eric stood and put his jacket back on. "Did they say what they wanted on the trays or is it up to me?"

"Come on. It's time. Eric, just let someone in for fuck's sake." 

Eric wrapped an arm around his head, giving him noogies and then a kiss. "Thanks for thinking of me, kiddo. Nobody needs the kind of baggage I'm carrying, okay?"

"I just want someone good in your life." Fucking big brothers. Ron punched his shoulder. "And you're not baggage. You're an amazing guy."

"You're going to be late for your date. Which one is it this time?"

"You're changing the subject and it's not a date, it's just Sally and I hanging out - she's the one who did your 'hawk?" Ron regrouped. "And Alan's really nice. Did I mention?"

"Ronnie, a Street kind of guy is never going to go for me, especially not a nice one." Gripping him by the shoulders, Eric marched him into the kitchen and up the back stairs up to their shared apartment. "Now for fuck's sake, put on something that doesn't look like you pulled it out of the dirty laundry and do something about that weedy crap on your face."

"But-"

"I'm fine." 

"But-"

"I'm good. Go out with Sally, have a good time, and get your ass back here in time to open." Eric sent him down the hall with a slap on the butt. "And shave! Sally's too nice a girl for beard burn on her ladybits."

~

The Thursday morning meeting was unusual only in the amount of ground covered. Alan reported directly to the CEO, CRO, and CAO. Mr. Conti, Mr. Goldsmith, and Mr. Shore wanted more in-depth details on the newest risks. In the end, the breakfast meeting turned into a breakfast and lunch meeting. As Alan concluded his remarks and put away his tablet, the room was unusually quiet.

"Alan, you've been with us right out of school. There's not a better risk assessment man anywhere on the Street." Mr. Goldsmith spoke quietly. "Believe me, we're not dropping you like a hot rock now that you're sick."

Alan could only blink, mind perfectly blank. What the fuck?

"We're going to pay your salary up to 36 months and pay your bonuses at last year's level. We'll keep paying the premiums for your insurance for three years as well. We'll even keep up your membership at the gym. You have twenty weeks of intensive medical treatments, and when you're in remission we'll be glad to have you back-"

He had literally nothing to say, sitting down in his chair very slowly as his superiors spoke.

Better than doubles your severance package.

Initial here.

A valuable member of the team.

And here.

We'll keep your office open for you. It will be here when you come back. Sign here.

Take the best care of yourself. If you need anything, anything at all, be sure to call.

Alan walked out into a spring afternoon with his entire professional life in a box. Jack stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "What happened, Mr. Humphries?"

"I'm... laid off." Alan blinked rapidly, pushing his glasses up and swallowing hard. "Until I'm well."

"You're sick, Mr. Humphries? I'm sorry. I didn't know."

The lump that seemed to fill his chest and throat made it hard to breathe or talk. "I have leukemia."

Jack whistled. "Son of a bitch. Where they hooking you up?" 

"Sloan Kettering."

"Well, they'd know, wouldn't they? Let me get you a cab." Jack stepped up to the curb and raised a white gloved hand. 

"Yeah. Thanks." Since he had to tote his whole professional life home in a file box, why not get a ride there? 

A yellow cab came arrowing in on the spot. "Anything you want me to tell anyone, Mr. Humphries?"

For a moment, Alan didn't know what to say. "Would anyone ask?"

"Of course they will." Jake spoke as if to someone not in their right mind. "You're a good, decent man in a city without many of them. People like you."

His life was full of surprises. "I had no idea. Tell them... just tell them that I'll be back."

Jack opened the door for him and nodded, slipping a business card into the hand slot of the cardboard file box. "You keep in touch. I'll keep you in my prayers."

Alan nodded, took a deep breath. "Thanks, Jack. It means a lot more than I can tell you."

A very short time later he paid the fare, then tipped a fifty in cash from guilt at the five-block ride. 

He picked up his laundry in the elevator foyer, went inside and set both laundry and file box on the couch.

And for the first time since he turned eighteen, Alan had nothing to do. 

His cleaning service had been in. The dry-cleaning and laundry service left his clean items in the foyer and taken away his week's worth of wash. He didn't think it was a good idea to ride his Lynskey the day before starting treatment. Could he still play racquetball and swim when he was in treatment? Could he ski this winter? Would he want to? He brought the clean clothing into the bedroom. 

"Maybe I'm not being very realistic." He murmured to himself, just to hear something. "It's chemotherapy. Twenty weeks." 

His reflection in the mirror on his wardrobe didn't look sick. Alan was kind of slight - he preferred the term 'wiry' -  and smaller than his siblings. And 5'9" was perfectly manly, thanks. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, mussing his usually immaculate side part. Would it fall out? When? How about his eyebrows? 

Maybe he should get his things ready now. Doing things would make him feel better.

The pamphlets and brochures were on his dresser and he found the one with the smiling nurse and cancer patient. Eat a light meal and take scheduled medications. There was intake, blood test, then the chemotherapy itself will take about four hours, and then observation for an hour after that. Dress comfortably, bring something to read, some music to listen to, or a portable DVD player. Family members are welcome. Bring juices and snacks in case you get hungry.

Okay. Something to do!

He opened his laptop and started checking his files on the hard drive, perusing days of music, movies, and television shows. He loved Gordon Ramsay, a Black Swan hunter in the kitchen. There were so many things he'd wanted to read, so the Kindle ended up packed to full capacity. 

Clothing. How should he dress? Casual Friday might be best. Chinos, a tweed houndstooth sport coat, chambray shirt. For a kid from Idaho, he'd picked up on the preppy code very quickly. Hell, he'd never been on a boat other than the ferry and he owned two pairs of deck shoes - one pair of which he'd wear tomorrow. Those were his lucky shoes - he'd bought them as a freshman at UMass. Belt, pocket square, socks. Tie? Yes. Undershirt?

The undershirt would cover the portacath. He could go without tomorrow. See how it went. 

The snacks and juice... 

The fridge held condiments, craft beers, a carton of milk, and a couple of bottles of emergency champagne. The cupboard had a bag of Wise potato chips, a box of Captain Crunch, and a can of Spaghetti-Os. Alan tended to eat out, get something to go, or order in. He had a flyer for Organic Direct - he could set himself up with that tonight.

And download some cookbooks. because he had no clue how to make an actual meal.

He'd make a plan. He needed a plan. He needed a plan because his mind was starting to run in circles and there were tears in his eyes and he needed to think instead of feel because inside he'd just started screaming again and he couldn't breathe because there was no air in here-

Throwing the bedroom window open Alan lunged halfway out onto the fire escape, gasping like a landed fish. Scared. So scared. He needed to do things and think so he wouldn't be scared. He needed to work, to immerse himself in something that required his focus and concentration. 

"I just don't want to die." It sounded so pathetic that he made himself angry, but it was true. 

And more than that, he didn't want to die alone. There was nobody in this with him, and that made it so much worse.

~

Sally dropped him off after a night of not actually seeing a complete movie on Netflix because of highly satisfactory friends-benefiting.

Ron opened at six on the dot, Monday through Friday. This morning Eric left a note that there were new top-your-own oatmeal packets up by the register and the 22-quart Nesco was full of steel-cut oatmeal with chia seeds. The mini-dessert trays were in the walk-in, and an order of seafood and shellfish was on the schedule for this afternoon - there was a check on the pinboard behind the coffee bean grinders. A look in back revealed Eric sleeping in one of the recliners tucked away in an alcove - placed there just for all-night culinary jam sessions.

Ass. 

A badly burned ass. A wary ass. But he could be a really good ass for the right guy. 

Not that he wanted to think about Eric being 'good ass' - he meant that in a completely different way.

Ron covered Eric with a blanket, slipped the glasses from his face, and then went out front to open up. Morning trade was brisk on Fridays. The people coming in at six looked for something to go - oatmeal and a topping bag, a fresh yogurt with fruit and granola, or an omelette-in-a-cup. Between seven and eight, everyone wanted to bring something into the office for their crew, or to impress someone at an early meeting. Alan was there at his usual time in his Casual Friday attire. He usually picked up a box of pastries in addition to his  _pain au chocolat_ , but this morning was different. 

_Pain au chocolat_  with Nutella today, and his usual Americano. However, he also picked up a boxed lunch with a bottle of Frootsy Tootsie's Mean Greens, a couple of Completely Nuts snack packs, and a bottle of Juicy Tidbits Apple and Cherry juice.

"No trays today, Alan?" Ron rang it up. 

"I'm heading uptown, I have an all-day appointment on the upper east side." Alan paid with his debit card, then added a twenty-buck tip. He was a good guy. 

"Hey, about last night. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable." And Ron was sorry. Maybe Alan was in the closet.  "I really didn't mean to be creepy."

For fuck's sake, Alan actually blushed. "Um. I'm not usually that socially inept."

"No, it's cool. I just love my brother." And he did. Eric, no matter what went down, made room for Ronnie. They were half-brothers, but there had never been any resentment on Eric's part - just big-brother-love. 

"Then your brother's a very lucky guy." Alan smiled and even if Ron wasn't gay, that smile made his heart do a little flip. It was... sweet. Kind. The type of smile that was so open and genuine that it could leave you a little breathless. "You have no idea how much that can mean in bad times."

Oh, yes. He did. "Hey. Seriously, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but you're my favorite customer - are you okay? You gave me a scare a couple of days ago."

"Ronald. Really. Seriously. Do not fuck off." Alan reached over and ruffled Ron's hair. "I'm as fine as can be. I'll see you tomorrow."

That was a hedged sentence if Ronald ever heard one. "You take care out there in the wilds of uptown."

"Watch out for the bears." Alan quipped back.

"Bears don't bother me, but the bull in this place goes on forever." Ron laughed. "See you tomorrow."

A few minutes later, after Alan was out of sight down Pearl, he became of Eric standing in the short hallway between the kitchen and shop.

Ron studied his brother. Yeah, he was interested. He'd had a good look. "That's the guy. He's cute, too - isn't he?"

"You like him so much, you date him. I'm going to take a shower." Eric grumped and stomped off.

This could actually work.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> This chapter: Alan's first day of induction-phase chemotherapy.

It was a case of hurry up and wait. 

Alan was a prompt person, and scheduled himself an extra forty-five minutes to complete paperwork - because there was always paperwork. There was a meeting with his 'team' and a very rosy picture painted for him. For someone who spent his career and put himself through college and grad school looking for the devil in the details, it was actually very discomfiting. They were selling him happy pictures, but he had seen the other patients in the lobby.

Dr. Millard, a psychologist and neuropsychiatrist with double-barreled degrees from Columbia and Hopkins  was quite effusively speaking on  - for fuck's sake - opportunities. "Mr. Humphries, we have counselors who can work with you while you're in treatment. Very often, a serious illness can be the impetus for-" She stopped when Alan held up his hand.

"Dr. Millard, I know you're probably going to talk about reconciliation with family. When I told my father I had leukemia, he told me that the wages of sin - my being gay - were death."

All the faces around the table went professionally smooth in a snap. Very good. About time someone around here cashed a reality check.

"I have a BS in Mathematics and BS in Economics from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, an MS in Finance from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and my Ph.D. from Cornell in Operations Research and Information Engineering was conferred when I was twenty-four. I have been employed as an analyst at one of the toughest capital management and risk assessment houses in the Financial District, hired when the ink was still drying on my degree from MIT. I look at financial entities trying to sell themselves as sound investments and then cut into their data looking for the stinkers. Believe me, good doctors, I know when I am being jollied or pitched. Now that I've whipped out my _curriculum vitae_ and we've all measured off, can we get down to the numbers here?"

The faces around the table hosted a range of expressions from sour to surprised, and his assigned hematologic oncologist, Dr. Sam Chowdree, simply smiled. "Apologies, Dr. Humphries. We find that what many patients seek is reassurance and support instead of hard numbers. The truth is that the numbers are hard to come by. There are many factors in a given patient that make it difficult to predict with any accuracy the outcome of treatment."

"Surely there's some kind of breakdown aside from that asinine 18-65 age grouping? There's little subgrouping for genomic factors, risk factors, state of health at diagnosis, just flat nothing." Alan threw up his hands. "The clinical data that I can find is a homogenized nightmare!"

"For privacy reasons the specifics of patient data are not available to laymen, only to researching fellows. I understand that a man of numbers and facts might find the lack of a quantitative data and analysis unsettling, even frightening." He spread his hands. "Medicine is as much an art as it is science, the rest is a crapshoot at best."

Alan thumped back in his chair. "Shit."

"I know it isn't very reassuring. And you have a very hard five months ahead of you, but based upon my own experiences I think a good outcome is likely."

"Define 'good.'" He tried to keep that neutral, but he could hear the sourness.

"Survivorship of at least five years after the successful completion of induction and maintenance therapies."

That was a gut-punch. Seven years would be a positive outcome. He'd be thirty-five before that could happen. "Successful completion."

"Yes. But is it possible that we can cross that bridge only if we come to it?" Dr. Chowdree held up his chart. "We have a dizzying array of combined treatment options before we come to that bridge, Alan. I will keep you very much involved in your therapy, knowing that it is vital for your peace of mind. Now, let's bring you to a room and begin."

The chemotherapy infusion suite was a small hospital-beige room containing a very odd-looking recliner, an IV stand out of a sci-fi set, a chair and coat rack, a chair, and a small flatscreen television.

"Please, make yourself comfortable. Your oncology nurse will be here in a few minutes to get you started." Dr. Chowdree put a hand on Alan's shoulder and Alan nearly jumped out of his skin. "And I am adding an order for Ativan - an antianxiety medication that will work with your antiemetic medication. In my best professional judgement, you understandably need it."

Alan only nodded, not too sure about his voice or if he'd make his excuses and burn rubber down the hospital beige hallway.

Dr. Chowdree left, and Alan pulled the curtain to. Shoes went under the chair, jacket on the back of the chair. Laptop, reader, pen and stenographer's pad on the swingarm table to one side of the recliner. He unbuttoned his shirt enough to clear the portacath.

God. He did not want to sit in that thing!

He did, however, did want to live. Amazing how that thought could override fear and move one's ass.

It was actually a very comfortable chair.

"Hi, Mr. Humphries." A New Jersey accent came from behind the curtain. "I'm Andrea Capello, and I'll be your chemotherapy infusion nurse - may I come in?"

"Yes, please?" He became aware that he had a death grip on the arms of the chair and made himself let go. 

Nurse Capello resembled Snooki's older and un-spraytanned sister with her hair under a mob cap, and she came pushing a small cart of things that looked unpleasant. 

"Dr. Chowdree told me that you really like to be informed, and I really like to talk, so hey! I'm an oncology-certified RN with a specialty in infusion therapy, and I'm going to be with you for most of your treatments. Now, are you going to be comfortable in that, or would you like to put on a chemotherapy shirt?" She held one up and unsnapped the shoulder. "Long or short sleeve, and we even have prints."

Despite himself, Alan felt his lips twitching in a smile. "I'll go with your best professional opinion."

"Yes. My opinion is yes. It's less hassle for both of us and lets me get better access to the port even if you're asleep." She handed him one of the shirts - long sleeve, blue, and no prints. "You can change in the bathroom."

Alan went into the bathroom and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off. It was freezing in here. "All right."

"It's your first day, so I'm going to walk you through everything. What's the note pad for?"

Alan came out and hung his Chambray shirt. "Well. For notes. I should take notes so that I'll remember everything I need to remember. I've read about 'chemo brain.'"

"You do know that you can bring a caregiver with you, right? Someone to help you?"

"I know. I'm... Well, I'm by myself." It came out awkwardly and it stung, but there it was. He settled himself into the recline and took up the steno pad. "That's just how it is."

"How are you getting home? I can have a special transportation service bring you home, provide a healthcare aide-"

Her concern and sympathy were surprising, but he hastened to reassure her.

"Let's see how it goes. Dr, Chowdree was on my case about not crossing bridges unless we come to them." Alan put on his 'I'm really NOT counting cards' face. "And you observe me for a while after, right?"

"Well-"

"And I can always take a cab."

"You'll let me call a special transport if you're feeling rough."

That did not seem to be a question, but an order. "Of course."

"Uh-huh. My husband says that, too." She wheeled over the little cart and took a seat to his left. "Now, I know they showed you how to clean and dress your port when you got it. I'm going to access it now for a blood draw. I am washed and gloved and now - masked." The nurse held up her hands in blue gloves. "And the first thing I do is to check the chest wall for any sign of swelling or discomfort. Have you had any shoulder or neck pain, tightness in the chest, or swelling in the left arm  or fingers of your left hand?"

"No, I haven't." Alan replied with a shudder as she removed the dressing, brushed on alcohol, then applied betadine. "But I can feel the thing in me, and sometimes even think I can feel it in my vein."

"It's a very unsettling experience, I know." She began to palpate his chest, shoulder, and arm. "No pain or discomfort? Good. It's a little like having a new crown from a root canal - if you've had one. Lift your chin for me? Great!" 

The gloves came off, and another pair went on. "So far so good?"

"So far so good. Now, I'm going to access the port, give it a flush and draw some blood." The foot of the recliner raised and head lowered; there were foot pedals in addition to hand controls. Made sense - that was a manufacturer really doing the right kind of thinking. "I want to put you flat for this. Just as a precaution."

"... is it going to hurt?" God. He was such a chickenshit.

"It may hurt a bit. I'll do my best to make it not hurt. Some people have phobic reactions. Some faint." Andrea showed him the tray, pointing out needles, aspiration syringe, tubing, saline, tape, and phlebotomy tubes. "You can't tell who's going to do what, so this is safer. Ready?"

"... no." When had he become so freaked out by needles?

"Okay. Want a walk-through?"

Alan nodded, Cessna-sized butterflies zooming around in his guts.

"We're doing this like a nursing school demo. First, I take the IP needle package, and I open it like this. It has to stay sterile! Then I-"

It was really fascinating to watch. When Nurse Capello was explaining and demonstrating, he could almost pretend that it was someone else. He was a tutorial.

Until she drew the blood.

"See? That's why I had you lie down."

"Uh-huh." Alan jammed his eyes closed and held on to the cushions again.

More unpleasant things done, and he kept his eyes closed.

"There. Your cath is flushed and you're doing fine - though you don't feel fine." She squeezed his right shoulder gently. What a kind voice she had. "Now I'm going to take these to the lab, and I don't want you to move for a bit."

"That's not going to be a problem." Even lying down his head spun.

"I'll be back in just a few. I'm putting the call button right on the pillow." Warm blankets settled over him and then the soft sound of her footsteps receded from the room.

_No throwing up, Alan. No crying, either. Grow up, asshole_

After a while, Alan opened his eyes and blew his nose.

_Okay. Can handle it. First days are always rough._

He made some quick notes in his steno pad about the procedures - there would be tutorials online somewhere - then he powered his Kindle. Louis Bachelier's Theory of Speculation would take one's mind off anything short of hanging - and it did.

"Mr. Humphries?" Nurse Capello came in with a basket of little bags. "You're cleared for treatment. Before we set up, you might want to use the bathroom - the treatment's going to run about six hours because of all the medicines we have to give on the first day."

There were two bags of saline, and five little bags of other things.

"All that?" Alan protested. "I'll be hitting a restroom every block on the way home!"

"The drugs are infused at different rates. The Benadryl and Ativan go first - the Benadryl to buffer against an allergic reaction and the Ativan for your anxiety." She hung the bags and threaded the tubing into the pump. "It might knock you out, but I think your jitters are mostly from the Prednisone and that honking bucket of coffee you came in with. All right - ready?"

"Be right back." Some shaky breaths in the toilet with the door closed helped. So did offloading the processed coffee and splashing his face with cold water. He went back out. "All right. Ready."

_Liar._

Nurse Capello accessed the portacath again. "This time I'm giving you a little lidocaine. I know that it hurt last time and you didn't say anything. No more macho from you, alright? I need to know when things hurt, or you feel sick, or anything else. It's important, really important to your treatment and your health."

"I'm not macho." The idea was silly. "And in any case, I'm gay."

"Still applies. Gay, straight, male, female, any of the above and other. Most people try to be tough, and end up being macho." She smiled. "See? Didn't feel a thing. Better?"

Wow. He didn't feel a thing. "Better."

"Benadryl first. You're going to feel dopey and might doze a bit. The Ativan's next, and since it's a tranquilizer, the combo of the two is going to put you in la-la land." She programmed the pump and then activated it. "I know you've been researching your treatment, so here's the order of dose: Cyclophosphamide, Daunorubicin, Vincristine. This is the only day this month that you're having Cyclophosphamide. You'll only have the Daunorubicin today, tomorrow and Sunday, and the Vincristine once a week for the four weeks of induction."

"I made a spreadsheet for the side effects." Alan admitted. "There were so many drugs-"

"Keep it up, Mr. Humphries, and I'll have you bucking for your RN."

"I-" There was a cool feeling in his chest followed by a sudden sleepiness. "Hm."

The head of the bed tilted up slightly and the blankets were arranged again. "There you go. I'm going to be checking in on you often, but if you really need me just ring."

"...'kay."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> This chapter: Alan's first day of treatment is something of a reality check. Eric has his own problems, and reminds Ronnie that the past always has bearing on the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is precious - and my beta-readers deserve to be showered in rose petals strewn by scantily-clad dancing boys.

When he awoke, Alan was confused. His glasses were on the swing arm table and he fumbled him onto his face. The room came back into focus and look at the IV stand showed that hours had passed - one bag of solution was empty and the other a little more than halfway down. Two things, however, stood out. The first was that his bladder was about to bust, and the second was that his stomach was cramping either from hunger or from nausea.

Someone had configured the recliner into a cradle that prevented him from rolling onto his left side in sleep, and trying to figure out the controls though the drug-haze summoned his nurse.

"Hello again. What are you trying to do?" Nurse Capello helped him to sit up and lower the footrest. "If you need, I can bring you a bedpan or urinal."

That cleared the brain fog quickly. "No, thank you. Um... can I wheel the stand over?"

"Yes, but I'm going to help you. Your balance might be off and you're a little impaired from the Ativan and Benadryl." Lowering the arm of the recliner, she supported Alan as he got to his feet. "How do you feel otherwise?"

"My stomach... I'm not sure if I'm hungry or nauseated." The IV stand rolled with them and he did need the help – he had jelly-legs. "I brought some juices and snacks."

"Did you have breakfast?"

"I had some _pain au chocolate_ \- a chocolate croissant."

"Tomorrow could you try something a little more substantial? Proteiny." She opened the door to the restroom. "Use the handrail, or sit if you feel wobbly. Tomorrow we'll need to start taking urine samples to see how your kidneys are handling the load."

The stand fit though the restroom door, and Alan was simply relieved that - nurse or not - she did not try to come in with him. He did use the handrail, because he did feel foggy and wobbly, but felt much better after he was done. When he came back out, he opened his briefcase and took out his cooler bag. Mean Greens juice and Completely Nuts Full Vermonty mix - maple-sugared walnuts, dried cranberries, freeze-dried apples, and mini cheddar biscuits.

The snack met with approval. "You should stock up. That way you have stuff on hand for when you need to eat but are too out of it to go anywhere. There are some meal services, too - and diet is going to be more important than ever."

"What made you want to be an oncology nurse?" Alan added, "If you don't mind me asking."

"Well, I remember how lonely and scary being sick or hurt can be, and how alone I felt. I want to help my patients feel less scared and less alone." And then she gave that blazing grin. "And I get to talk a lot! My husband says that's the main attraction. According to him, I talk in my sleep, too."

The food went down and stayed down for the time being, and Nurse Capello went in and out on her rounds. Feeling achy, Alan dozed until the pump began to beep, summoning his nurse and her little cart.

"How do you feel, Mr. Humphries?" She began to take down and disconnect the bags and tubing.

"Achy. Weird. Tired." Alan scrubbed at his face. "Sorry. I'm usually a lot more articulate."

"It's okay." She squeezed his arm. "Now I'll give you a small dose of heparin so that there won't be any clotting, and then I’ll flush the line. After an hour of observation, I'll remove the access, dress the port, and you’ll be formally discharged."

"You mentioned a better idea than a cab?" Somehow the idea of taking the subway or a cab downtown didn't sound as appealing as it did this morning.

"I'll call the transport service right away. Do you want to lie back down and cover up while I do this?"

He did, reminding himself to dress more warmly and comfortably for his visit tomorrow.

"Okay, here we go. I've also put together some stuff for you to take home.” She pulled a little bag from middle shelf. “I put some tutorials on a USB drive. There's a packet of information on side effects, with a chart on what you need to come to the urgent care for and what you need to go to the ER for. There's dressings, tape, gloves, swabs..."

"You didn't have to go to all that trouble." Alan protested, opening his eyes.

"Yes I did - because you don't have a caretaker and it's a lot to remember on your own." She put the bag in his hands. “You’re my patient.”

"Thank you." It was not often that he was touched or humbled, not in his profession, but he was now. "Thank you very much."

"And there's some business cards in there - the transport company, a few home health care aides I know and trust, and some good meal services." The way she looked at him Alan took to mean that there had better be calls made. "And by meal service, I mean sound nutritional science and good food, not a bunch of woo-woo."

"Yes, ma'am. No woo-woo." He could stock up at the The Pearl Street Kitchen, and there was a Whole Foods on Houston. He could stop there, too. And he should sign up with Organic Express. "I'll call on Monday, but I have things on hand until then."

He'd ordered a bunch of delivery food from Nish-Nush, The Dish, and Great Wall.

"Is it all Chinese food?"

"No. Of course not." Steak Oscar was not Chinese, nor was falafel.

"M-hm. How are you feeling now?" Nurse Capello spread the blankets over his lap again.

"Cold. Still weird. Tired and achy - like I'm about to come down with something. My mouth is really dry."

"Is there any nausea?"

"Now that you mention it... a little."

"I don't want to interfere or rag on you, but you really need a home health aide. Just get someone to sit with you tonight, okay?" She took his hand. "I'll call someone for you."

"No. It's fine. I promise I'll call someone if I need help. I will."

Nine hours later, he was on the toilet with the trash basket between his knees. Nurse Capello's notebook was open on the bathroom floor, and Alan had marked the pertinent information in yellow highlighter.

It was okay.

It was fine.

This was within allowable limits.

It was expected.

He was going to be okay.

That was okay within a given measure of okay that did not include dying in the bathroom and distressing his housekeeping service.

~

Monday, Ron waited most of the day for Alan to show and when he did at a little after two in the afternoon, it was a shock. Pale and moving slowly, Alan wore a pair of chinos and a knit pullover shirt instead of his suit and tie and carried a battered backpack instead of his briefcase.

"Sh. I'm fine, Ronald." Alan chided. “And you do not have a poker face by any measure.”

"Fine does not look the way you do right now." Ron brought him one of the bent-back chairs from a table. "You look about to fall over."

"It's a case of - as the docs say - 'gastrointestinal distress.'" Alan didn't quibble about the chair, but sat with a low sigh and adjusted his glasses. "If you could set me up with some easy, tasty eats my innards and I would be profoundly grateful."

"For how long? Are you seeing docs for this?" Juices - nothing too acid or overly sweet. Oatmeal cups with a bunch of topping bags. Some of the pudding and custard cups would be good. Instant omelettes - a scrambled egg disk with a little bag of fillings – would be small but filling.

"If you could fix me up so that I can pick up some more on Thursday? And yes, I am seeing a physician." Alan gave a longing look at the espresso machine. "I really want an Americano. I likely shouldn't have one, though."

"How about trying a _cafe con leche_ in vanilla hemp milk? That's easier on your stomach than dairy. Some cinnamon in there?"

"Vanilla hemp milk. That sounds..."

"Like a hipster joke, I know. Just trust me on this." It was unnerving, because Alan looked really sick and exhausted with puffy dark circles under his eyes and faintly hollowed cheeks.

"Not too sweet. I know it sounds odd coming from a _pain au chocolate_ addict, but since this started I can't do too much sweet."

There was something going on and Ron didn't want to pry, but it was and wasn't what Alan was letting on. "We have chocolate-covered crystallized ginger jellies. Those are good for nausea."

As Alan sipped his hemp as they figured out a load of meals, and then ate a massive bowl of Eric's Italian seasoned whipped red potatoes while he waited.

"Want some more of those?" Alan was scraping the bowl with the spoon when Ron came back from his gathering - an encouraging sign.

"Oh, yes. Please. They're delicious. I had no idea you did dinners." Alan looked much better, and a little sleepy.

"People pick stuff up between four and six. I'm putting in some of the meatballs and sauce." Ron started bagging and Alan packed his backpack. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, ten o'clock and four o'clock snack, plus two juices. "Steamed salmon and sauce, and chicken with gravy. Meatloaf – don’t make that face. Eric makes great meatloaf. Sole almandine. Some good soups and a chicken fricassee. You still need protein."

Alan signed the charge and hoisted his backpack into place. "Thank you, Ronald. Your help is appreciated."

With a fifty-dollar tip, no less.

It was long after closing that he laid back in one of the recliners with a sour cherry lambic, watching Eric cook and thinking. The difference between unwell and sick was that unwell went away, but sick tended to stay around. Alan was in bad shape, and somehow Ron did not think it was a just a tummy bug.

"Alan loved your potatoes today; he ate two bowls of them." He took a draw of the fruit beer and rolled it around in his mouth. Best yet. Sour, but not too puckery. Eric was the man who could cook, but Ron was a budding brew master. "Almost put him to sleep."

Eric fanned a sliced strawberry over a square of _paleta tres leches_. "Nice. You're getting very attached to him. Do we need to have the safer sex talk?"

"Eric. Come on.”

"Ronnie. No." Eric didn't even look up from his garnishing.

"Look. I haven't told him anything about you other than you're my brother, okay? He's one of the nicest... no, not nice... he's good. Really a good person." He unreclined and set the beer on the small table between the big La-Z-Boys. "But I'm worried about him. He came in today and he looked just awful. He said he's had a stomach bug."

Eric just looked at him. "Ron. Come on. Even if he were Mr. All That, I'm not anymore."

"Just-"

"Try. I know. 'Just try' is not that easy, not after the fucking over I took."

"I know." Ronnie couldn't imagine it - not that Eric talked about it much - but the aftermath made him handle his big brother very gently. PTSD could be ugly.

"And it's not just a fucking over, Ronnie. Gary Buckland fucked over my whole life, and everyone I could have sworn was a friend went along with him. I put everything I had on the line to go to San Francisco and open The Quarter." Strawberry after strawberry was sliced with painstaking patience and fanned over the frosting even as Eric's voice went raw with hurt. "And it cost me every dime, everything I thought I had and could rely on. I lost every lifeline I should have been able to count on to a massive, multiparty lie. I was left alone and dependent on him, and he lied to me and gaslighted me until the whole thing blew up in his face. You don't 'just try' after that, you can’t. I can't."

Ron sighed. "I just want good things for you. I want you to be happy. You deserve to come out the other side of this and be happy again."

"Happy doesn't come from other people, Ronnie. It comes from inside you." Eric said softly. "I'm a headcase. A fucked-up, screwed-over, miserable bastard - but I'm good with it."

"You're not any of those things. You're my big brother and the biggest teddy-bear I know." And he was - a 6'3" Beanie Baby.

Eric brandished his slicing knife with a scowl. "Keep it up, beer brat. I’ll go Hannibal Lecter on your hipster ass. Collops de Manhattan Bucketmouth."

"Yeah, yeah.” Ron waved it off. As if. “Still, you have to admit he's cute." Eric liked masculine and he knew Eric took a good look. "And you looked. Come on."

"And you know why I won't do anything about it." Eric dug in. "You know why. Why would I burden anyone with that? I come with a lot of baggage, Ronnie. That one in particular is one I can never lose." Eric's smile was bleak as he trashed his prep gloves and unbuttoned his chef's jacket. "It's with me until the day I die with love from Gary."

"You don't know that. You're not even at the threshold where they'll give you antiretrovirals." If that turd-fly were still alive... but he wasn't. "You don't even know if you'll develop symptoms."

Eric took a lambic and popped the top, slinging his jacket over the back of the second recliner. "Not the point, Ronnie."

"Someone who loved you wouldn't care." They'd be careful. They'd take it into account. They'd love his brother anyway.

"Ronnie, HIV doesn't go away. I'm a time bomb." Eric pulled his tank top aside to reveal a black biohazard symbol tattoo with a red plus symbol in the middle of it. "I'm a dead man. Gary murdered me. I just get to walk around for a little while longer."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter, Alan's optimism and self-image take a hit while Eric gets cooking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and critique are awesome, and thanks to those who have given so generously. :)

Filgratsim.

Alan took out his phone and Googled it.

So.

Wonderful.

He could bring the misery home with him.

Not that his first intramuscular dose of Pegaspargenase was turning into a walk in the park.

His expression must have been something else, as Nurse Capello looked guilty handing him the package of prefilled syringes and another packet of her information. "I know."

"I know you know." Alan patted her hand. He needed to be a better patient.

"We need to get your neutrophil count up." She handed him a small paper gift bag decorated with exuberant teddy bears. "And these will help with the nausea."

Alan opened it and blinked. "... are you sure you're giving this to the right person?" He held up a jar with a smiling and very pregnant woman in profile on the label. "And I quote: 'Preggo Pops?'"

"Organic Preggo Pops."

"Digression. Quote: 'Preggo Pops.'" He accentuated the syllables. "Come on. Really. I mean - really?"

"Don't you get macho with me." She shook a finger at him. "They really work and I can vouch. When I was pregnant with my first... whoo. Morning sickness 24/7, and I mean like a howitzer." She opened the jar and fished one out. "Sour raspberry's the best and I promise your testicles won't fall off just because you're XY instead of XX."

Alan's juice almost went out his nose. "Jesus, Capello!"

"No, we named him Carmine Anthony - he came out redheaded like his daddy. Having Annabella was a cinch after that. Come on - say ahh..."

"You can't be serious." Alan huffed.

"I am so serious." Punctuated with intense gaze.

"Ah." The cellophane crinkled and she popped the candy into his mouth. It did not help his dignity that it was delicious. "Thank you."

"Now how has it been at home?"

"Not bad." Alan replied. "Some barfing and the opposite, but in allowable limits. The red urine from the Daunorubicin was a bad thing to see first thing in the morning on Monday, though."

He's screamed, actually. Then he looked at 'Nurse Capello's Guide to Not Losing Your Mind During Treatment' and found it under 'Side Effects: Allowable' and after some breathing into a brown paper bag, was okay within a given value of okay.

"Fever? Bone aches? Swollen glands?" Andrea - as he was coming to think of her - checked the injection site again. Fuck but that hurt. "How much are you eating?"

"A little at night. Not much, usually with the fever. Somewhat, but it subsided after two days. I have a good local place a couple of block away - everything's fresh and mostly healthy." He could eat a bucket of those mashed potatoes - and almost had.

"I'll bring it up again; you need a home health care aide. How's that feel?" She peered at his arm. "No redness. Is it burning or itching?"

"Just a little sore now and I'm fine." His deltoid burned something fierce at first, but was settling down.

"We could administer it via infusion if it's going to hurt that bad."

"Oh, no. Not another one." He wanted to curl up in a ball as it was. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday had been hell. Monday had been agony. It was late morning before he could get in the shower, and that had wiped him out so hard that he hadn't left to walk the two blocks to The Pearl Street Kitchen until the middle of the afternoon. "Seriously."

Nurse Capello sighed. "Okay. I'll try a different injection site on Friday, but consider it if the next one gives you as much trouble as this one. How are you getting home?"

"I was going to take a cab." Alan phrased that carefully.

Nurse Capello gave him significant side-eye. "And how did you get here?"

"I took a cab."

A silence began, then lengthened.

"I'll take the service home if you think I should."

The silence gained heft.

"And I will take the service here and back on Friday - and all other infusion days."

Then, meekly, because the silence was developing its own gravitational field.

"I promise?"

Andrea sighed. "Alan. Listen to me. People do not like to think of themselves as being sick, and I understand that. But you are being given high doses of chemotherapy to kill cancerous cells." She took his hands, squeezing them gently and he dropped his gaze from guilt. He should not make people worry, especially not nurses with dozens of patients a week. "Your immunity is lowered, you're tired, you don't feel well, and it's scary. I understand you want to do normal things, because then you can feel as if you're really on top of this. You're a strong person, you're used to being in charge, but you need to be careful of yourself - and that means taking precautions."

That lump was back in his throat. He hated that. "But I'm taking care of myself at home. I really am. Just good nutrition - no woo-woo."

"That's good. Just take reasonable precautions because your immunity is down. Even a snotty nose could turn into something scary. Okay?"

"Okay."

It was a long ride home with discouraging reading material and sucking on Preggo Pops.

Fuck. He was such a wimp. Not even two weeks of this and he'd do anything to feel good again, healthy again, to be normal again. He wanted to go to work, or ride his bike on the Hudson River Greenway, or take the subway up to the museums. Alan swallowed hard, looking out the window. Anything. Everything.

"Mr. Humphries? Do you need to stop anywhere?" The driver asked via intercom.

"No thanks." Alan tucked his new information into his briefcase. "I'm stocked up and think I just want to crash."

And he honestly needed to crash. Alan found that he could be fine and full of energy, then with no warning barely have enough to stagger to the nearest horizontal surface and sleep. It was scary to have to lie down and have to sleep. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after Friday. After the three-day chemical cocktail party that marked the start of his treatment and pissing red for two days, Alan wasn't sure anything could be that bad.

He drifted off, unaware until the driver roused him by opening the door. "Sorry."

"It's all right, the wife said you'd be wiped out." The driver wore regular livery, and his hair was a red that could be seen down the block.

This, then, would be Carmine Capello.

"Is there ever a time that she doesn't get her way?" C-level execs would jump through hoops for Nurse Capello. Alan was certain of it.

"If there is, I'll call Eyewitness News. She's been running me since ninth grade at Voc-Tech in Scotch Plains." Carmine gave him a hand out, steadying Alan as he exited the sedan.

"It's a privilege to have her care." And Alan meant it sincerely - if anyone was on his 'team' as a person and not a patient, it was Andrea Capello. "Please thank her for looking out for me."

"I will. And she wants you to take this." Carmine handed him a card. "I'm a certified EMT, and a home health care aide, and the best driver in the Tri-State. She says she knows you're a really private person, but wants you to think it over."

"Promise her that I will, but I really am doing okay." Alan paid his fare, and added a generous tip. "And thank you both."

About two in the morning, he staggered from the bedroom with a wake-screaming-cold-sweat nightmare still echoing in his head. His briefcase sat on the breakfast bar, and for a moment he wrapped himself around it as of grabbing onto a life-preserver. He wanted his normal life back. He wanted his real life back. This was a nightmare. Not even sleep was a respite. In Alan's dream of white corridors, the lights were going out, the darkness spreading down the maze of hallways towards him as each fixture failed. In the rooms to either side, the darkness waited for him behind doors that offered escape, and if the darkness caught him-

"Please be in the side-effects... please be in the side-effects..." His hands were shaking too badly to manage the double locks, and Alan put his face in his hands and sobbed. He was so not okay. He was so not handling it.

The rest of the night was spent proving to himself that despite having in almost a thousand channels via Verizon's FIOS service, there was not a single fucking thing to watch between two and six in the morning except the same five infomercials and movies that had their premieres at Blockbuster. He'd cancel the service and would just fork out for his landline - required by the building - and internet. Getting out his laptop, he instead went to Amazon and ordered a Wii with a stack of games. If he was all alone with everything going on inside his own head, he'd go insane.

At what point he fell asleep, Alan couldn't say. It was early afternoon when he woke and after taking his Prednisone, he opened the Filgrastim, pulled out one of the little prefilled syringes, and injected it under skin 'in a fatty area' as indicated in the insert. Breakfast (or a very late brunch) went down just fine - the meatballs were delicious. A shower felt amazing, though he was disconcerted to see the amount of hair on his brush after.

Maybe the Filgrastim wouldn't be so bad. He felt pretty good. And a walk would get him out of the apartment.

It was funny. He preferred a very clean minimalist style. The modern lines of the furnishings and abstract, colorful paintings contrasted against the century-old wide-plank oak floors, pilastered fireplace mantle, and coffered ceiling. He'd only slept here, really. It was an extension of his office - or his office was an extension of his home. It was hard to say.

It was as he dressed that he noticed the discomfort. At first his joints ached, and then it seemed to spread.

Tylenol. There were things he wanted to do today. He'd take some Tylenol and wait until it kicked in.

Three hours later, he opened his prescription for vicodin and swallowed two 500mg with a protein shake. Then he curled up on the sofa, wrapped in his duvet. Bones could not throb. They just couldn't.

His cleaning service came in at some point and, bless them, cleaned around him. Someone arranged his medicines on the kitchen counter, brought his laundry service hamper out and his clean items in, remade the bed, and left a fee schedule for medical waste disposal with a 'get well soon' card.

 

~

Eric read the note on the fridge when he came in. Ronnie was a pest, but a beloved pest.

> **Make good things for Alan. He's picking up for Thursday afternoon through Monday afternoon - 3x meals and 2x snacks p/d. I'm going over to Rachel's in Williamsburg - don't wait up.**
> 
> **Catering order for 20 @ Barton, Eccles & Swinford:**   
> **• Soup (roasted eggplant/tomato/red pepper + loaded baked potato chowder).**   
> **• Sandwiches on baguettes (especially req'd steak au poivre & red potato, rosemary ham & brie, roasted veg & cheese, turkey & bacon with blue cheese spread, Sriracha chicken salad).**   
> **• Salad (baby greens with asst. dressing cups).**   
> **• Relish tray.**   
> **• Minicakes platter - they like the sponge cakes - the dark chocolate + bitter orange marmalade filling, and mini tres leches should be in there.**   
> **I'll pull the drinks assortment and the utensils. Pickup at 11:00 Friday. I'll do assembly on baguettes; just leave them out for me that morning. See you at six.**

That was a good night ahead of him. Veg, steak, and chicken over charcoal and apple wood chips, starting the red potatoes for the piped filling, doing the fresh pickling for dilly beans, spicy baby beetroots, making up the dressings so the flavors could blend-

And this Alan again. Who was okay-looking - if Eric was admitting anything and he wasn't.

Ronnie said 'gastrointestinal distress.' That could be anything from a nasty stomach bug to ulcers. So make easy food, but aromatic to stimulate the appetite, nutritious for someone who might not be able to eat a lot at a given time, and a fast zap in a microwave. He flopped into one of the recliners with a Manhattan Special and opened his laptop, preparing menus, ingredient lists, and looking over the inventory in the walk-ins downstairs in the basement. Thursday was a light day, sales wise. He'd trim it back a bit, and do some extra soups and pastas. Rain was forecast for lunch hour into early evening, and a hot lunch always went well with crappy weather. Baking came first, though. He'd start the breads on second rise, make the cake batters, get the resting cookie doughs from the prep case, roast the coffee and then blend the beans.

It was easy to lose himself in cooking. There was no staff here; it was just him and the raw ingredients. And Eric had plenty of reasons to lose himself, plenty of things that he didn't want to think about. Cooking was comfort, and one of Eric's earliest memories of cooking was standing on a kick-stool in front of a stove, making scrambled eggs and cheese for his mother and baby brother. He couldn't even have been more than six or seven.

Where had they been living, then? Amsterdam? London? It had been cold, that was for sure.

Some cheese ravioli, a tricolor vermicelli, and penne - do a white clam sauce, a garlic and white wine sauce, and a classic marinara for sauce cups. Soups - a minestrone, basil tomato, and a straight up chicken broth with matzo balls. Mm - some chicken with gravy later for him. Meatballs, sausage and peppers, some scampi - need to use up the last of the shrimp.

Potatoes - steam a fucking ton of those.

Breakfasts - egg discs for top-your-own omelets, oatmeal cups, granola-yogurt cups, Portobello pizzas, whole-grain buttermilk pancake packs to go... breakfasts were the easy part, and moved those along first.

Around midnight, his stomach registered extreme objections to being around all this delicious food and not getting any of it! Eric came up for air and looked around the kitchen. None of the timers for any item in progress showed anything less than forty-five minutes. His own dinner was a little indulgent - a Manhattan Special with a scoop of his own vanilla ice cream, and a big bowl of chicken and gravy over kale-and-red-potato colcannon.

It wasn't a bad life, Eric thought. A little hermit-y, but he did go out from time to time. Ronnie, that sterling extrovert, beer nut, and lover of many ladies, exaggerated. Besides, running Pearl Street was a full-time-plus job. It was a better thing to stay in his hard-won shell than to load some poor guy with an HIV+, PTSD-ridden head case.

He checked his email, deleting most of it. There was some personal correspondence - some people knew the story; which had turned into a scandal that sunk Gary's vaunted 'Russian Hill Fag ('Swag' to the media) Mafia.' Willfully and intentionally infecting one's partner with HIV was aggravated assault; planning to do so made it assault with intent to kill. Gary's doctor and attorney had been accessories before the fact as well as after - and more than willing to rat out everyone else involved. It made a big noise in San Francisco, but Eric though it wasn't a fart in a windstorm in New York - something with which he was also fine. They wanted to know how he was doing; was he okay, was he better? And Eric always dutifully replied that he was good, still kicking, busy running The Kitchen, Ronnie's doing great, how about you?

Eric was okay. He was just fine. His viral load was low and his T-cells just ducky, thanks. His head was a fucking mess, but there were workarounds, and he wasn't contemplating any bridge dives any time soon.

Now, about this Alan's stuff. It should be high-calorie but nutritious, served in small, dense portions – with nothing too sweet, too salty, or too acid. Thursday Breakfast - Lemon-poppy seed whole-grain buttermilk pancakes with sliced strawberries, a single-egg omelet filled with minced mushrooms, onion, and spinach. Dried peaches and roasted pecans with gingersnap bits and dark chocolate for a snack. Lunch - Something in a wrap, with a soup and... maybe a potato salad?

Hadn't made that in a while. It would do for putting out front, too.

Planning personal menus was a pain in the ass, but sometimes when you were sick or down, a little something just made for you could make you feel as if someone gave a shit. Eric knew that one really well. Ronnie thought this Alan was a good guy - said Alan was his favorite customer, always said please, or thank you, and really meant it when he asked how you were doing. Ronnie was a good kid, as fun as a basket of puppies even when he was little and Eric loved him, but good people always thought everyone else was good, too.

Eric chucked the Manhattan Special bottle into the recycling bin, and then pulled out a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

Once upon a time, a good kid named Eric had believed that, too.

"Yeah, you stupid son-of-a-bitch." He whispered. "And just look where it landed you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> Double chapter this week. 
> 
> Important conversations. Alan wants to go home. Eric wants to go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback, kudos, and critique are awesome, and thanks to those who have given so generously. :)

The pain was not that bad today. However, it was Thursday. He had six hours before his next dose of Filgrastim and the subsequent resort to vicodin when the Tylenol didn't do jack. He had chemotherapy tomorrow morning, and a largely empty larder due to a sudden burst of ravenous hunger wherein he consumed a mass of food possibly as large as his head. It was supposed to rain starting at about noon, but from the look of the sky it might wait around much longer.

The Pearl Street Kitchen opened in ten minutes.

In anticipation, Alan had set his alarm and showered at 4:30 in case he needed a rest afterward. The bike was ready and he dug the two panniers out of the closet, plus his day pack. It was easier to bike than walk, he reasoned, and he'd be hauling back four days of meals, snacks, and juices. Two blocks on the Lynskey was a breeze in the cool of the morning, even if mounting and dismounting was rather more challenging than he'd anticipated.

He was going to nail this.

"Good morning, Ronald." It was six on the dot when Ronald pulled up the shades and opened the door. "How are you?"

"Morning, Alan. According to Rachel in Williamsburg I am fantastic!" Ronald smiled as Alan put the kickstand down on his bike. "You're feeling pretty good?"

"Some days are better than others." Alan acknowledged. Hell, some hours were better than others. "I've eaten the cupboards bare, though."

"That's great - you must be doing better." He held the door for Alan. "Taking your lunch in must make a difference, too."

"It does." Because even Sloan Kettering's food was still hospital food.

"Your stuff's in the walk-in, give me a minute while I get it. Eric went on a cooking jam last night, and came up with really good stuff." Tying on the green apron, he walked into the back. "You're early enough that Eric might still be around."

The hot tattooed guy in chef's whites. Lord. Alan being honest with himself would admit to wanting some that man for breakfast. Alan decided to ogle the reach-in cold case instead.

"Uhm. Hey! Rice pudding!" Alan raided the cold case - rice pudding... chocolate pudding... butterscotch! He loved butterscotch! Nobody made butterscotch any more. "I'm making a pile out here."

Ronald stuck his head out long enough to give Alan a reproachful puppy face. Alan was not playing properly.

"Don't disturb him, Ronald. He must have worked very hard last night." Alan clutched his butterscotch. Ooh. Chocolate chip cookies. It had been years since he'd dipped cookies in pudding.

There was audible tsking as Ronald went into the kitchen.

Potato salad - the red kind. Red beans and rice - that, too. Curried lentils with spinach and potato - that had to be healthy. Some snacky things... more of the Totally Nuts. Some pita chips? Pastas!

No. No pastas.

One pasta.

Okay. One pasta. The vermicelli.

Three toppings!

And garlic bread.

A little two-pack of cannoli.

Alan stacked his extras next to the cash register.

Then added a banana-buckwheat pancake bowl and a serving cup of maple cream.

"I got a little hungry last night." Alan explained at Ronald's incredulous laugh.

The young man set two 'Pearl Street Kitchen' bags on the counter and whistled. "Yeah. I can see! You're more than hooked up until Monday. It looks like Eric made up a bunch of stuff for you outside of the regular menu, too."

There was a loud spate of fake-coughing from the kitchen and Alan paid strict attention to searching for his wallet.

"And feedback would be appreciated." Ronald was grinning as he rang up the purchase and Alan distributed the haul into his pannier bags.

"Of course." Alan verified the amount and added a tip before slinging his loaded daypack onto his shoulders. "Thank you, Ronald."

"You're very welcome, Alan. Have you got all that? Those are some sweet panniers." Ronald's grinn achieved Cheshire Cat proportions, and Alan thought that the air had the sulfurous whiff of fraternal mayhem. "Maybe next time you come around Eric will be-"

"-will be an only child?" Came a very soft baritone growl from the hallway.

"ThankyouRonaldandhaveagoodmorningbye!"

The door shut before the last syllable was fully out of Alan's mouth, and it was everything he could do to hook the panniers on before swinging up and pedaling for home. When he looked back, Ronald was running out of the vestibule just steps ahead of a launched cream pie and imminent fraternal doom.

It was enough to give him a chuckle the rest of the day, and in midafternoon he needed one until his vicodin kicked in. The bone pain was horrifying, but not so much the pain as the thought of what was causing it. He hoped his neutrophil count would get up there and hold on for a few days after he was done with this week's box.

Alan undressed and crawled into bed - properly in pajamas this time - and pulled the covers up with the vicodin making his thoughts fuzzy-edged. The food was good. And what did it take to launch a pie like that? Maybe it was like Frisbee... never got that either... lost how many of the things... going to bed in the middle of the afternoon... frisbee... The opiates gave him strange dreams. Some about his family, not seen in eleven years. Odder still were the ones concerned the office and a cast of tabloid characters zooming around while doing bizarre things. A really bad one about chemotherapy woke him, but the soft haze of the drug enveloped him again. This time when Alan went back to sleep he dreamt pleasant and shifting dreams.

In the dream he tilted his face up to the sunshine, and the ocean air was cool and pleasant. The Amalfi coast, that villa he'd rented for August in 2010...

And someone nuzzled his neck, pressing kisses on a path to the corner of his jaw.

Oh. GOOD dream.

Tattooed arms and broad shoulders, skin hot from the sun and slick with coconut tanning oil. Hard. Skin to skin they slid against each other, frotting, groping, kissing.

"You know what I want, Alan. Fuck me." A soft baritone growled in his ear.

Alan nuzzled and nipped at his neck and shoulders, oiled hands sliding down to play with his ass and finger him open. And in dreams barebacking was totally on and a lumberjack-built butch honey like Ronald's big brother would be a bottom. And as in dreams, it was that easy and that good and Eric could Alan as much of a ride as Alan had to give him and deep and hard and the heat of him around Alan's cock and Eric... fuck yes Eric good yeah squeeze me like that like that like-!

Alan woke eyes opening wide as the wild rush of orgasm squeezed them shut again and-

_Goddamnit I'm screwing a pillow areyoufuckingkiddingme?_

And even if it was just a wet dream, Alan thought he damn near shouted the windows out when he came long and good and hard - unable to get the image of tattoos and pierced ears out of his head. Despite being grumpy with himself and his notional libido, he felt good and loose in every muscle. For the most part he didn't even mind he'd made a mess of the sheets, his pajamas, and his pillow. Stripping the bed and himself, he opened the rarely used laundry closet and stuffed everything into the washer, tossing a detergent pod and starting the cycle. A shower would put him right, and he'd just remake the bed.

God, that felt good. Alan cast a look down at his spent cock. "You know, you could have said something before this. I haven't shot in the sheets since I was sixteen."

And if he felt a little foolish speaking to a part of his own anatomy, Alan figured that he was not the only man to have occasional conversations with his genitals.

~

"I'm not speaking to you." He didn't have to feel so satisfied, Eric thought resentfully. "No. Wait. I'm speaking to you just this much. What the fuck was that about?"

Eric stood in the shower, water running, terribly glad that Ronnie was downstairs minding the store. The teasing would be epic - not just for having to wash his bedding after coming in his sleep, but for talking to his dick. He'd never hear the end of it, though he might not be the only man on earth to have these one-sided conversations with the other head.

"Wake me up next time! It's not as if I neglect you."

Grabbing the soap and the washcloth he hastily cleaned up.

"You get a good nut least three times a week, and to really good porn and with primo toys."

There was just something about a hot wet dream that left you feeling like you'd just had the best fuck of your life. His ass hadn't had it that good in a while.

"You really don't have anything to complain about. Much less going and getting all sprung over some Wall Street twink in an Italian suit."

_Yeah, but you haven't had good dick - make that any dick aside from silicone - in years and I wanted a good fuck._

"You know why not." Eric grumped, turning off the shower and reaching for a towel. "And anyway, it was a dream so of course it was some superlative dick."

_And he's not a twink, fuckwit. With those shoulders? He's a swimmer. I'd bet your Zwillings on it. Did you see that ass on him? You know that he pushes it goooood..._

"Oh, just shut the fuck up." A pair of shoulders and a nice presentation would have required a test drive back in his French Quarter days, but by now Eric was far more wary. "It was a wet dream!"

And bad that enough he was talking to his dick, but now his dick was talking back? He was out of his fucking mind. Or further out of his mind than usual.

Then again, maybe this might be a signpost on that fabled 'road to recovery' they'd been blatting about when he was an inpatient at the Langley-Porter Clinic (otherwise known as the nuthouse, Eric having gone copiously nuts) post-Gary. It hadn't made much of an impact, at least not then. Honestly, Eric hadn't thought he'd get to the point where thinking about fucking an actual person didn't make him want to look up the walking distance to the nearest bridge on Google Maps.

He could go out.

There were some darkwave and industrial clubs like Tool Box or Squeered that welcomed all who were HIV-positive. And Rox from Sharps might be at Tool Box - he could stand a little more work on his magpie and roses. There were not many artists who would ink or pierce those with HIV, but it was Rox's specialty, and ze was the best.

Yeah. He could do that.

But for now, he had to wait for his sheets to finish in the dryer and remake his bed before Ronnie came up.

He changed into sweats and flopped into the big, purple playpen sofa. Ronnie had a fondness for the seventies - a decade in which neither of them were even gametes - and had raided thrift stores in all five boroughs in order to curate his 70's swinger-themed hipster living room. Eric had to put his foot down and adamantly hold his ground against burnt orange, avocado green, turquoise, or toasted almond anything. And no shag carpeting or mirrored wallpaper. Ronnie was a good kid - he just made shitty style choices.

Eric picked up the remote and turned on the babble box - time to knock a little off the Hulu queue.

~

Carmine was right on the nose to pick Alan up for his chemotherapy appointment on Friday morning.

"Andrea runs everything, doesn't she?" Alan dressed for comfort this morning in jeans, his lucky deck shoes, and a soft flannel shirt over his chemo shirt.

"It's a good thing we have two kids and she loves her job or she'd take over the world." Carmine opened the rear door of the sedan. "She wanted me to make sure you'd eaten a good breakfast."

Alan got in. "I have. She gave me a lot of information on how to eat, and I've been working on charting it. She should write a book - or rather she already has - but ought to publish it."

"Tell her that, please!" Carmine shut the door and went around to the driver's side, continuing the sentence as he got into the vehicle. "She has a huge amount of experience in the practical stuff. How's your week been?"

"Rough." Alan answered honestly as they pulled out into traffic, navigating the messy traffic grid of Lower Manhattan. "Filgrastim makes me take vicodin and curl up in a little ball, and the Pegaspargenase just... sucked. And I'm really worried about the vicodin."

"Side-effects?" Carmine exchanged horns and gestures with another livery driver and turned right onto Bow. "Mental? Physical?"

"No, you see I like vicodin. A lot. And I think that could be a problem." Vicodin made everything feel... nice. He slept, and when he was awake his brain felt good on it, wallowing in a cozy, fuzzy haze. "I really want to try something else."

"Mr. Humphries, people with pain issues rarely become dependent, but you have to do what's right for you." The early morning traffic stop-and-go was Friday light, and they were heading uptown with ease. "And the Filgrastim is only until you get your neutrophils up."

"I know, and I think that the worst part of it is I know why I hurt so much." It made him shudder. "It's my bone marrow and what it's doing."

"Easier to be ignorant?"

"I think that's worse - to be in pain and not understand why. I suppose it's horrible no matter to what degree."

"Andrea and I have both seen so much of it. She's tougher than I am. She stuck with nursing and I dropped out of being an EMT - but then one of us needed a flex schedule when the kids were too much for their nonnis to handle." The Bowery split into 3rd Avenue, and they took the straight shot up. "Today's going to be a lot shorter than last Friday, so I'll come and pick you up about two."

Alan felt the jolt of nervousness and took a deep breath. "Okay."

Carmine glanced at him in the rearview. "Got anything chocolate on you?"

"... um. Yeah. The Pearl Street Kitchen does this bittersweet dark chocolate pudding with a cream center." The car slowed. "You mean now?"

"Now. Chocolate gives you a swift kick in the serotonin levels." Carmine diverted to a more scenic route. "We're early. Eat up."

Thus it was that Alan entered Sloan Kettering rather more calmly, and disposed of his chocolate pudding cup on the way in. The meeting with his 'team' was moderately productive, mostly led from the clinical side by Dr. Chowdree. It was really too early to tell, but the signs that were discernible interpreted as encouraging, and then there was an almighty row about the opiates - which Alan summarily lost in a dogpile of MDs and citations about the importance of pain control in a therapeutic setting. They hammered him with numbers. Alan volleyed with request for cites, ending up with a reading list and a drubbing about taking medicine not being the same as doing drugs, Dr. Humphries.

He made a tactical retreat to the chemotherapy floor, signed in, and waited in the lobby to be assigned a room. This time he brought his loaded Kindle, a neck pillow, his warmest pair of socks, and his binder for Andrea Capello's informational dispatches. The room was the one he'd used previously, and Alan got ready in a timely fashion - reminding himself to not have the fucking vapors this time.

God, most of the week he'd been too miserable to even think about the portacath aside from changing the dressing. Now he felt a surge of something close to panic as he took off his flannel shirt and hung it up. When he opened the shoulder of his chemo shirt it looked and felt all right to him.

"Fuck, that serotonin didn't last long enough."

_Buck the fuck up, Alan. Come on._

Shoes under the chair, and he put his warm socks on - his feet were so cold last time. Reader set on the swingarm table with the charger at hand. And his neck pillow so he wouldn't have a crick this time. Sitting in the recliner, Alan picked up his reader, queued up Corelli's Op. 5 sonatas, and opened 'Bayesian Methods: A Social and Behavioral Sciences Approach.' Let the panic try and get him now.

"Mr. Humphries? It's Andrea Capello. May I come in?"

"Yes, please. Good morning. Thank you for sending Carmine."

She came in with the Little Cart of Horrors and smiled at him. "You're welcome. He's the best. How are you feeling?"

"... okay. Within a given value of okay." There was a Look with Minor Silence. "The Filgrastim... it hurts. A lot. It blows a hole in my day."

"Pain control not working? Or works but you wish you didn't need it?"

"Second one."

"It's awful, but it's really vital." She rolled the small stool around to the left side of the recliner. "Maybe after tomorrow or Wednesday you can stop - those neutrophils need to level up and stay up for 48 hours."

Alan unsnapped the panel of his shirt to give her access to the portacath. "It's horrifying. I never thought I'd hurt that way."

"It is and I can't believe you're handling it so well-"

"I don't feel as if I am." His voice was a little thick and he cleared his throat. "I don't feel as if I'm handling anything."

"You're doing as well as anyone I've ever seen in this situation. Now, about the Pegaspargenase-"

"Infusion. Just... not that again." He was in induction phase, and then there was something called intensification phase. If he felt this bad now, then how was he going to feel when his therapy leveled up?

"I'm so glad." She masked and gloved, and started to examine Alan's portacath. "I felt horrible when it hurt that badly. No pain or swelling in the arm or shoulder?"

"None. And there was no way you'd know how I'd react." There were so many unknown variables that it was pure chaos - how could anyone know? "We'll just do it as an infusion on Fridays."

"All right, but we can do it on Tuesdays, too." Palpating back to his shoulder blade, Nurse Capello looked concerned. "How are you doing on eating?"

"Good! The Filgrastim wipes me out, but I wake up ravenous."

"You've lost a little weight."

"I'm eating a lot more than usual, and I'm a lot less active." Alan fidgeted. "This is going to sound stupid, but can I swim? I'm used to going a few times a week, and it's really relaxing. I don't think I could catch anything from chlorinated water."

"It's not so much the water, but the locker room before and after - bacteria, viruses, fungi. You do NOT want to see _tinea pedis_ in someone with a knocked down immunity, much less any of the _streptococci_ or _staphylococci_." Stripping off her gloves, Andrea put on a new pair and looked at him. "I know you must want to do a lot of things, but I'd really run that one by Dr. Chowdree. Ready?"

"... minute." Alan took some deep breaths. He'd get used to this. "Okay."

After she prepped the area around the port, Alan laid flat and closed his eyes for the draw. The lidocaine made a huge difference.

"Okay?"

"Okay." He affirmed. hoping he sounded as if he really meant it.

The warm blankets she spread over him were the best part of a bad day. "I'll be back. You rest and have some of those snacks when you're up to it."

Next time he should bring some tissue. What the fuck was going on in his head?

After a while, Alan sat up and opened his cooler bag. One strawberry-mango smoothie, a pumpkin-walnut-chocolate-chip muffin, a bottle of chocolate almond milk, a pair of mini brie-en-croute, a little thermos of tomato-fines herbes soup, and a baguette with chicken, kale, aioli spread, and cucumbers.

Chocolate almond milk and the muffin. Serotonin bump ahoy.

Oh, fuck. That was delicious. You really had to appreciate someone who didn't skimp the chocolate chips and ginger, either.

Another thing to appreciate aside from his-

_Shut up._

Butt.

_Inappropriate. Shut the fuck up and eat the muffin._

It was funny how something good could make your stomach feel happy. Even in a bad situation the taste was somehow cozy and personal. It was silly, but it was comforting.

He was almost done when his nurse came back with his chemotherapy. "News?"

"Cleared for take-off, and while the neutrophil counts are up it's not enough to stop the Filgrastim." Hanging the bags, she began to prime the infusion pump. "I know that's not what you hoped for, but you still had a good response."

Alan made himself smile and it felt sickly and fake. "Well. It's something."

"It sucks. You're sick, and the cure makes you sicker before it makes you better." She took his hand, squeezing it and then rubbing it warm. "But you're doing okay. I've seen people really not okay at the exact point where you are now. You get to feel that way. It's valid."

"It hasn't even been a full month, Andrea-"

"Alan. Listen. I have been a nurse on this floor for ten years. Think about that. Think about what I've seen." She lifted his chin. "You don't think so but you're doing fine. I know you're scared and your anxiety level goes right through the roof when you see needles."

"It's that obvious?"

"Again - ten years on this floor, twelve as a nurse."

"Give me a minute?" Alan glanced at the restroom door.

"Sure."

Cold water on his face, have a whiz, elbows on knees and breathing deeply.

_Okay. Okay. All right. It's all right. It's going to make you well. It's okay._

He re-combed his hair, went back out, sat in the chair and made himself smile. "Ready."

This time he suspected Andrea hit him with the Ativan first because he went out like a light.

And when he awoke, Alan almost wished he were dead. The bones of his thighs and pelvis, sternum and back, felt as if they were on fire with pain. All he could do was lie there and gasp, tears running down his face - unable to gather enough wits to find the button and call Andrea.

She came a minute later on her rounds, stopped and called for Dr. Chowdree and then came to him. "Where's the pain?"

"B-bones. God. Please."

_Look at the light. Look at the ceiling. Don't scream. You can cry, but don't scream._

"Morphine Sulfate 5mg, via catheter-"

Dr. Chowdree's voice and Andrea dis something at the pump and a weird silvery light flooded into his vision from just over there and a man in a black suit, a man with strange green eyes as watching him from the doorway.

"Who are you?" Alan knew him, didn't he?

"Sh." The man lifted a black-gloved finger to his lips. "You're not supposed to see me."

Darkness.

Swimming. He was swimming. Dark, warm water all around him and the stars above reflected in the water. No pain. Relaxing, Alan let the current pull him along, surfacing-

He woke up in a room, violently nauseated, still hooked up to an IV stand and pump and there was a catheter in his-

NOPE.

Getting out of here and going home. NOPE NOPE NOPE. How the FUCK did you get the sides of this bed down? Saliva flooded his mouth and Alan simply went over the rail, staggering to hold himself up between the bed and his IV stand and not do something horrid to his penis. The waste basket was mesh with a little plastic liner.

Good enough.

Funny. He'd never barfed hard enough to see stars before.

The responding nurse came with a hefty pair of orderlies and an on-call doctor.

"Get this thing out of my dick where the fuck are my clothes I'm going home." He would walk if he had to.

It did not end up that way. Restraints, sedation, and Dr. Chowdree's visit on Saturday morning made things rather more clear - but only after Alan's demand that the catheter be removed was seen to. It was possible that he was never going to ejaculate again. Maybe not even piss. What might happen after the local anesthetic in his urethra wore off made Alan very, very nervous.

"So the interaction between the Filgrastim and the Vincristine was unusually severe, and we will make changes in your treatment to reflect that." This was assayed as calmly and matter-of-factly as one might comment on Thursday's rainstorm. "Normally, we could not give them concurrently except in the case of certain conditions."

"That's not a crap shoot, it's a beta test!"

_Fuck. Fuck. FUCK._

"No Filgrastim for twenty-four hours before, or twenty-four hours after your treatment." Dr. Chowdree spread his hands, then handed over Alan's cooler bag. "It's the best we can do."

Andrea had saved his food for him, and added a slice of cheesecake from Junior's Diner. Alan just knew she'd sent Carmine all the way to Brooklyn for that. She also left a note to call when he was being discharged. Alan read that twice. Was that an order? That was an order. For someone who needed heels to reach five-foot-three, Andrea had no lack of pull.

"Can I get a blood test now? If my levels were up yesterday and stay up today..." Alan had never thought one could be afraid of medicine. "Just get me off this stuff. Put me on something else. I never want to feel what I felt yesterday."

Agony. He now knew how agony felt. He didn't like knowing that.

"Alan. Your neutrophil count is far too important to bypass. Your innate immune system relies on these cells as the first line of defense." Dr. Chowdree put his foot down. "Without enough to fight an infection, we could lose you before even knowing you were sick."

"Nurse Capello invoked _tinea pedis_."

"Imagine terminal athlete's foot."

Alan shuddered. "All right. No Filgrastim for twenty-four hours before or after chemotherapy. But I still want the ANC."

"Of course."

The count was not enough to discontinue the medicine, but the absolute neutrophil count was rising. And Alan could go home.

He dialed the New Jersey number on the note and the call was bumped to voicemail. On a Saturday morning they were probably out with the Bambini Capello and Nonnis Capello, doing family things.

"Good morning Capellos, this is Alan Humphries - thank you very much for the cheesecake. I'm being discharged and going back to my bolthole in Lower Manhattan as fast as I can get a cab. I look forward to seeing you both on Tuesday. Have a very good weekend."

He dressed, checked his belongings, ate his food starting with the cheesecake, and had the disconcerting experience of taking a leak with an anesthetized urethra.

NOPE.

_Going home, getting into my hole, and pulling it in after me until Monday morning._

~

Eric was getting dressed.

Ron was curious.

The Kitchen was closed on Sunday, so Saturday nights Eric would go work out in the basement, take a shower, make something indulgent, and watch his various queues or play his way through hours of games on Steam. Tonight, he came up from the basement and took a shower, but instead of making for their personal kitchen, Eric could be heard brushing his teeth and firing up his shaver to touch up his evening stubble and chin patch.

Really.

Then out of the bathroom and - yes - down the hall to his room. Ron heard the door shut and the music started. 'So Alive' by Love and Rockets.

Ron silently punched the air. YES.

And a chance to tease his brother. FURTHER YES.

Ron went into the bathroom and raided the medicine cabinet. Two rubbers, two little packets of lube in an Altoids tin with some actual Altoids - he made up the kit with glee. The first time Eric had done this for him, Ron had almost died of embarrassment. However, he had to admit that it was discreet if one went out with the intent of hooking up.

There was the sound of a blow-dryer over the music. Eric was really putting it on, and when he did Ron's sporting girls would just stare and ask if that door swung both ways. Ron was fairly sure that it did, but that was not something that you asked your brother.

It took 'Mother Russia' and 'Juke Joint Jezebel' before the music shut off, and Eric came down the hallway all in black.

"Nice guyliner, bro." Ron grinned. "This season's all about the smoky, seductive look."

"Fuck off, beer brat." Grunted as Eric pulled his black wool cavalry jacket out of the closet and shrugged it on over the tight black tank. "Going to Tool Box - Rox is working and I want my left shoulder finished."

Ron grinned and held up the Altoids tin. "Now, I know you're a big boy-"

"You are not really doing this, are you?" Eric groaned.

"Just in case." He rattled the tin. "Two rubbers, lube, and mints. You never know-"

Eric's look could have scalded milk - but he took the tin.

"YES. Okay, you're rusty and out of practice, but-"

"Ronnnnnaaaaald." Eric's grin was evil - enhanced by guyliner, black titanium ear gauges and horseshoe rings. "If you're giving me advice about taking it in the ass, I'm going to have to ask you for your dick jockey credentials and references."

Oh, that FUCKER. Ronald felt himself go hot and scarlet. "I- um."

"What is it when a girl straps one on for her fellow?" Eric wriggled his hips lewdly. "Pegging, is it? Oh Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie. Don't blush! A little bend-over-boyfriend never hurt anyone-"

"OHMANFUCKYOU!" Ron threw a punch, but Eric moved fast, wrapping his arm around Ron's head. "Lemme go, you dick!"

Eric instead gave him around a dozen noogies and a smooch. "My little beer brat is all grown up."

"Dick."

"Maybe."

"Just be careful."

"Don't worry. What are you going to do while I'm out?" Eric buckled his boots and put up the collar on the jacket. "You've probably got a whole line of honeys for your Saturday night tomcatting-

"I'm going to make peanut-butter and chocolate chip Rice Krispies treats and watch Sailor Moon."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter, Eric goes out. Rox comes into the picture. Alan has a friend. And the past is a hard thing to outlive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas and all who give me feedback, in whatever way. :)

Rox's night was good. The private dancehall was nicely full, and business was brisk. Ze was bored, doing the more predictable work. Ass antlers and nose rings paid the rent so ze wasn't going to bitch, plus the club bouncers threw the drunks out for zir. It was nice, though, when a client wanted something a bit more original and personal. Zir latest client went off with a two-hearts tattoo on the bicep that would no doubt need to be reinked with thought to the drawbacks of someone else's name permanently etched upon your body. The dance floor was full, and the bar packed three deep with people dancing and drinking as if their lives depended on it.

"Media vita in morte sumus." In the midst of life, we are in death. Now, who was here that would let zir play?

Tool Box was what Rox called 'panqueer.' All genders, all expressions, all flavors, and all colors - and Rox loved a good assortment. Ze moved out onto the floor, feeling tres bonne femme tonight - a good dye job had brightened zir hair to an arterial red, plus a splurge at MAC would make anyone feel so very New York. A new underbust corset from Vollers in a tartan ze had no right to wear any longer nipped in zir waist, accentuating zir hips and modest bust.

Ah. There he was.

_Hello, you pretty man. Don't you look just as tasty as one of your own cakes._

When you did significant work on someone, you came to know a great deal about them. Simple things like a tattoo or branding design, where they wanted their piercings and which ornaments they chose could tell you so much. Eric Slingby's first design was a biohazard trefoil covering his upper pectoral and the hollow of his shoulder, a red positive sign nested in the center like the hourglass on a black widow spider. Red roses cradled a skull, scythe, and old-fashioned pocket watch, covering his right arm from shoulder to elbow - the hands of the watch rested at a minute to midnight. A work-in-progress of a magpie about to take flight and red roses adorned his left shoulder.

Rox had done all of them to Eric's specifications, and ze looked at them critically now. He really needed to come to the studio - the lighting was better for the whitework. Announcing zir presence was as simple as hooking zir fingers in his belt and pulling him in. What that man did to a pair of low-slung jeans and a black tank top was more pornographic than a gangbang.

"Rox. Baby, you are fucking up my gaydar all over the place tonight."

His voice was low and sweet, and it charged zir up. It was good to be appreciated. Rox pulled him in for a grind. "There's so much you don't know, sweet baby boy."

This time he didn't pull back or shy off, and he was the tamest thing when ze took the lead with him. The DJ did them justice, playing every low, dirty, grinding tune in the archives - and even spun The Cult's 'Sweet Soul Sister' into a fifteen minute jam that had the hookups flying fast and furious.

"Get in my chair, you pretty man. I want to ink you goooood." Yes, you did learn things about a person, like how they saw themselves when you worked on them. You learned things they didn't even know lived in their head and heart. "How did the feathers heal?"

Ze was meticulous when working on positives. They sometimes had problems with healing, and could be prone to opportunistic infections. However, Rox did zir best never to turn anyone away. What was silly and trivial to one was a matter of heart and soul to another. That lesson still lay smoking on zir own soul, raw and blackened even now.

"They did really well." Eric showed zir as they walked to zir setup. "About the whitework-"

"I want to do that in my shop, the lighting's better than in this hellhole." It was lovely, actually. Sadism and theater were not incompatible with making a living. "I need to add some to those lovely red roses, too. A little reminder of purity against the flagrante delicto of red. Come on, shirt off."

"Why? Did you want to do some more work on the pectoral?" He obediently peeled it off.

"No, I just like looking at you without your shirt on." Rox pointed to the chair. "Park it right there. Have you decided on the thorns or not?"

"I don't know. I really don't want to go into overkill, but I think that they're kind of fitting." Eric fit his large frame into the chair. "We can try a few on the right, though."

It was a basic tenet that reincarnates had no memories of their previous existence, they carried only the ghosts of memory in their deepest subconscious. Rox repeated this in zir own head and held fast to the belief.

"Small ones. Sometimes a little prick causes more damage than a knife in the guts."

"Or a whole bunch in the back. Sounds like experience, Rox." Eric's smile was as bitter as zir heart. "Been there."

"I know. I read the article in Alt.Queer magazine." Eric stiffened, eyes going hard as ze continued. "You were a side column in Rolling Stone for the federal corruption trial, but AQ was the only coverage of the assault trial. I know more about you than you do about me. I thought it was fair to tell you."

Rox took a calculated risk, telling Eric what ze knew about his past. That Buckland bastard gave him a mortal disease, then he and those other bastards broke him. It was too bad that Rox couldn't tell Eric how Buckland died. It was some of zir finest work - a magnum opus in red.

"Why?" The word came out tightly, and all of Eric's muscles were cranked for fight or flight.

"I read it before I met you, honestly." Truth. The magazine had been left in the shop by a client. "A customer wanted a tattoo based on the cover story from the Body Art Expo."

The trapezius muscles eased visibly, though Eric remained silent and watchful.

"If you want to get up and walk away, I will understand." They found him on the Golden Gate, barefoot and shirtless in February with a bottle of whiskey. Despite the years passed since then, Rox had the feeling that Eric was still a man with his toes out over the edge. "I mean you no harm, and maybe I should have told you when you first landed in my chair, but I didn't."

It was tense as Eric thought it through, looking zir over as if trying to see zir soul. "You knew and didn't say anything."

"I thought that after something like that you might want some... privacy."

Eric's smile was humorless and his eyes as empty as a pair of glass buttons. "Try dignity."

The wound was reopened, and grimly Rox set zirself to drain it. "You have that. They broke you because you were young and foolish, but you survived. Never, ever think that survival is less than a victory."

And how well had ze learned that one? Another lesson still smoking on zir soul.

Eric reached out and cradled zir face, wiping a tear away with his thumb. Shit. Ze hadn't even felt it.

"Sometimes my soul leaks." Even a sadist felt pain, and sometimes even the masochist railed at the injustice of it. "I should pack it up for the night. Unless you want to do that whitework."

"At your place."

"At my place. Nothing you don't want. But at the same time - nothing I don't want."

The way he'd touched zir, the way he moved when they were tearing up the dance floor made Rox's blood race, but at the same time he went where ze led him. This might be a massive overstep, but boldness was ever a friend and should favor zir now.

He helped to pack up, loading the stuff into the Zipcar van - and did not resist when ze pushed him up against the rear doors and kissed him hard. It was good to kiss a man as tall as ze was in heels. Oh, yes - lips and teeth and tongues. But why oh why was the passionate swain not busting the buttons of his fly? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

"Rox. You're screwing up my gaydar bigtime."

His fingers brushed the tops of zir bosoms and ze had to smile.

"Shh. Rox has a secret." Taking Eric's wrist, ze guided his hand under zir crinoline skirt and my, that opened his eyes. "I told you - there's so much you don't know."

The part of zirself that ze could not be rid of nonetheless gave pleasure, and at other times ze had rather enjoyed playing the man. A lifetime ago, Rox thought it a curse of zir origin that no surgery, nor even a demon's magic could alter zir gender to the one she then desired. In later decades, hormones could stop a beard, change a voice, and give the cutest little champagne-saucer sized tits, but that part remained. Eric, it seemed, did not mind - and he gave it a stroke that made zir purr.

"Now. Why, my pretty man, are you not busting your buttons for me? Hm?" One by one, Rox popped them free - and for a moment he almost seemed about to stop zir. "Shh. Let me play."

As if anyone was going to notice in this part of the Village. He wore black boxer-briefs, silky to the touch, and ze slipped a finger in... Oh. My.

"I put it on lockdown." Eric was redcheeked and Rox laughed in delight. "It got rowdy."

There was a 'Gates of Hell' in silicone keeping Eric's rowdy prick constrained. Rox's finger trespassed more deeply into Eric's underclothes. They were going to have such fun!

It was the first time Eric had been to Sharps - zir own studio and home in one. A huge, floor-spanning loft off Canal Street filled both needs. The Victorian-era former warehouse was redolent with the ghosts of baled tobacco and rum. The ancient floors and elaborate white plaster Corinthian columns set off red walls and faintly sinister modern furniture all in black. Theater and sadism went together like vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce.

"Put the chair there, pretty man, and follow me. I want the best light for the whitework." Ze rigged the natural-light lamps and arranged the instrument trays next to zir custom tattooing chair. "And the shirt can come off, too."

Alone, he was uneasy and off his game so ze simply assumed the role of Senior. Senior says and junior does, so ze simply bossed him as if ze'd never done anything different. Truthfully, Rox laid the groundwork for this from the first visit. With the needle-tipped quill in hand, Rox was authx and actrx and artisan - Eric was the work in progress, and Rox loved zir work.

"Now this is my favorite object in the whole house." Rox patted the red vinyl padding. "So many uses - tattooing, piercing, branding, bondage..." Ze smiled toothily. "I have a peg for every hole, my sweet, and one for most days of the month besides. If I'd known you'd follow me home tonight, I'd have a selection of goodies picked out for you."

Eric was not, however, staring at the chair. He was staring at one of Rox's favorites from zir own Incubus Unleashed collection - the large tentacle-formed item called 'The Rear Ender.'

"Rox? You have not only managed to confuse my gaydar and mess with my head, but also to scare the living hell out of my ass."

"Oh, pretty man - that's not for you! That's like playing Carnegie Hall - you're not going to make it unless you practice, practice, practice." Scooping up the piece, Rox put it back in the toy cabinet. "Now this... or this... maybe this..." Abstract or artistic representations were his apparent favorites, and Eric's glance lingered on one in particular. So - not really a size queen, and he actually knew where his own prostate was located. "Are you out of practice?"

Oh, the blush rolled almost to his shoulders. "Fairly out of practice."

"Mm." Taking the shirt from him, Rox hung it and configured the chair. "Here, let me make you comfortable."

Barechested in the chair, he made a very engaging exhibit. Restraints would not be a good idea at this point, so Rox began to set up the whitework materials. "Now, your magpie, I like the way the feathers came out, but I want to highlight the black with a little more white and sharpen the definition in the white feathers."

"And you mentioned something about the roses?"

The studio was a much more conducive atmosphere to in-depth discussion, and Rox was very pleased at the ideas Eric produced. He accepted the suggestion of being inked with Media vita in morte sumus, but was not sure where to put it - inking it in white around the black biohazard trefoil was one idea. And all during this time, ze touched him on the arm, the shoulder, the knee, the thigh. Jumpy at first, his reaction told Rox so much - Eric hadn't. Not with anyone. Not for a long time. The tension and desire almost made him quiver.

The touch of the needle on his skin was as sweet as kissing him. Rox made small thorn after small thorn, depicting them as hooked into Eric's flesh, the redness around the punctures more suggestive of torment than dripping blood and gaping wounds. Eric seemed to surf the sensation, his skin lightly flushed, respiration quick and light. When Rox nudged his basket with zir fingers he gave the most delicious moan. Ze just had to take it right from his lips and swallow it down.

"Be still. Behave." Rox admonished breathlessly. The boy could talk you into anything without saying a word, kissing like that. Popping the buttons on his fly and Rox slipped a hand inside the boxer briefs, teasing out the locked-down goodies in the black silicone cage. "My, my. Such a pretty toy."

The cage was very well made, and not your average cheap sex shop model. It was meant to restrain and prevent a rowdy prick from erecting as well as holding back the foreskin for the obvious reason - it made a lovely display. Rox picked up an Exacto knife from the instrument tray and smiled as the pretty thing twitched.

"Hold still for Rox, darling."

"Fuck." Eric breathed the word out but held still.

In this, Eric's prick spoke for him, a clear bead of fluid forming at the tip. Oh, ze had read him correctly. Rox cut the bands of silicone away with a nonchalant expertise, and then cut the anchoring ring from around Eric's balls. Freed, he was most impressive - thick-shafted and uncut, the glans as rosy as his flushed skin. Rox cupped his balls in zir hand, then pressed behind them with a knuckle.

"All nice and primed for me, hm?" Ze smacked the head of his prick against his belly. "Are you going to behave, or do I need to make my own arrangements?"

Theater. Rox waved the 'arrangements' at him - the stretchy red silicone ties in varying thicknesses and lengths. In short order his jeans and drawers were down around his boots - with a token tussle and some trash talk - and the ties held him very securely.

Very safely.

Rox could see the tension bleeding out of Eric, as hard as he fought to hold onto it. The poor boy. The poor wary darling. It was a lovely work, though. Eric's arms were secured and supported behind him, a thick band of red silicone held his hips still, while two others held his nicely muscled thighs apart.

"So pretty, and such a filthy mouth." If Rox's touches were proprietary, it might not be entirely theater. "You need seeing to."

Sauntering away, Rox took satisfaction in the lustfulness of Eric's gaze as ze undressed. Baring zir body had bothered Rox a lifetime ago, but coming to terms with and embracing queerness had made Rox proud of zir physique. Swinging a scythe did things to set off a pair of tits that no bra or corset-maker could equal. .

Ze dressed in flowing scarlet silk - a bias-cut sleeveless robe and nothing under it, with zir hair up in a snood. Slowly, Rox walked around the presentation, allowing Eric to look more fully.

"Pretty man, look at you." Rox walked to the cabinet and opened it, making selections from the array of toys - with special provisions for fluids. Ze kept buckets of detergent and bleach for a pre-autoclave soaking - they worked just as handily for penetration toys. "You're starving for it."

A couple of the selections made his eyes go a little wide behind the purple titanium frames, but he made no objection.

"Now, here are the Rules of Rox. When you want to pause, you shake the rattler. When you want to stop, you drop it. When I tell you to shake it or drop it, you do so or I will stop and make sure you're okay."

"Okay."

Rox placed the rattler in his dominant hand, made him shake it, and then smiled as ze took out a box of black nitrile gloves. "Now, pretty man, I am going to milk that prick of yours until you haven't a drip left to give."

The gloves went on with a snap, and an unfeigned fiendish grin; the expression of ohyes!ohno! on Eric's face was priceless. The other considerations that were inhibiting Eric simply became part of the performance. Rox had not built zir reputation by being careless or cavalier in any role, and Eric had experienced zir needles. To begin with, ze completely ignored his cock. Rox preferred to find out what other spots rang his chimes. There were fond memories of a lover who would come hard from having the backs of his knees sucked, so it paid to never rule anything out.

The lower back was a given - how many people had ass antlers there? Neck and nipples. Ears - also a given because of the piercings. Ass - naturally. Eric's sides were ticklish. Scratching his shoulders made his hips buck. And the unexpected - massaging his feet with particular attention to the heel made him moan.

Finally, Rox sat between his spread thighs, with a smug smile for the straining flesh of his prick, and opened a packet of Surgilube.

"You're killing me, Red." His voice was a low, warm murmur; almost slurred from the endorphins and hormones.

The pain that nickname gave zir was sweetness and agony all at once, because he couldn't possibly remember.

"Pretty man." Rox kissed his thigh, picking up a ribbon of silicone. "We haven't even started."

How Eric cussed like a deckhand when ze tied his balls down and apart, then beribboned the base of his cock. Then, to be fair, ze had to do the same for zirself. Eric had zir at a lovely cusp of desire, torn between simply fucking him silly and wringing him of every bit of tears, sweat, and come that he had to give. It was pure art when he fought his bonds, fountained foul language and curses, kissed Rox as if ze was his lifeline and the embodiment of angelic mercy. He felt safe enough to let loose and it was Rox's privilege to work him over.

The only balk was at the silicone sounds and urethral plug, and Rox demonstrated them on zir own equipment. "Surgical lubricant. Nothing else - it has to be sterile and water-based. Now this is a small diameter rippled sound-"

Playing with his prick was almost as much fun as playing 'how many toys can go into and come out of Eric's ass tonight?' But the best was denying him orgasm for hours until he was delirious and incoherent, burning up with the need for more than getting his shot off.

Rox regloved. "Come on, pretty Eric. You've been such a good boy-"

"Rox, goddamnit, stop being evil and fucking fuck me or I'm going to just up and fucking die on the damn table-"

Oh, so pretty. Foul-mouthed, hot-eyed, with the muscles of his ass, thighs, and abdomen flexing as his body tried to come.

"Nobody in the history of the world has died from not ejaculating." Rox smacked his ass. "Spread it, boy."

When ze had been Red, ze had often asserted that Eric's sexual orientation was 'Yes' and he did not disappoint now.

"You think you need to fuck here." Rox touched his temple. "Because you're so primed and ready here." Ze trailed a sharp-edged fingernail down his rosy-headed prick, then between his buttocks. "And especially here."

The toy Rox pressed into him was not the largest, but given that Rox was now very familiar with Eric's intimate anatomy, it was perfectly positioned for maximum stimulation. He writhed so prettily when ze loosened the bonds on his hips, breath hitching as he took the knob-shaped plug into himself and squeezed - only to almost levitate off the table when Rox twisted the bullet vibrator within to life.

Nitrile gloves and a condom were not what ze wanted to give him. Rox wanted to give him flesh and sweat, semen and blood. Ze hadn't killed Gary Buckland slowly enough for what he'd taken from Eric. Instead Rox stripped off the glove, swung astride him, then wrapped zir hand around both of them, pressing prick to prick and stroking them together.

"Rox-ahAHFUCK!" Eric's eyes went wide, arms twisting in his bonds even as he thrust into zir grip. "I- you-"

"Shh, sweetheart. No exchange." Rox's breath hitched hard in zir chest; he was as smooth as peachskin and hard as granite. "Trust Rox, baby. I'll take good care of you."

"Fuck goddamnit Rox if you're yeah going to make me come this hard then you can nf fucking kiss me-"

No need to tell zir twice. Kissing was great. Coming was awesome. Kissing and jerking off with someone else's needy prick was zir new favorite flavor. Rox liked zir bits just fine.

"I still want you to fuck me, Rox-" Eric smiled like an angel, and ze could feel the pulse at the base of his prick pressing against zir and no way to stop and didn't want to-

"B-b-brat! AH!" Rox arched and shuddered, barely in time with a cloth to catch their mess, shouting as incoherently as the man under zir.

After, once Rox freed his arms, he was sweet and nuzzly - and somewhat freaked. Considering it was his first sexual contact aside from his hand in years it was understandable. Eric felt himself a leper, mutilated, diseased - for him the idea of possibly infecting anyone was a horror. That had kept him in fear of a part of himself - sexuality, intimacy and the trust needed for both - that Gary Buckland had blighted. To give Eric some of that back was very satisfying indeed.

Rox cleaned him up and tucked him into bed fuck-drunk and softly dazed, waiting until he was asleep in the red satin to go clean up. The disposables, toys, and equipment were autoclaved separately with the toys going back in the cabinet, the equipment into sealed trays, and the trash into a medical waste container. The buckets took a solution of boiling water, soap flakes, and bleach to sit and cool overnight.

But all this busy-ness, fucking, and cleaning could give one the hungries. As Rox stepped into the kitchen, ze eyed a pigeon feather falling slowly to the window ledge.

So.

Just to be sure, Rox looked in on Eric - taking his glasses off and putting them on the night-table.

When dealing with Reapers, or even suspecting their presence, Rox took few chances and always watched zir back. The life of an outlier and rogue was precarious, and ze had made plenty of enemies in a little over two centuries. To a mortal-fleshed reincarnate, such an encounter would be quick and final - and fatal. This soul, Eric's soul, would be going with Rox when the the time came. Rox's books showed a heavy balance owed, and bringing a lost Reaper's soul home would go a long way to paying it off.

Ze simply slipped into bed next to Eric and spooned around him. This time he was frail and mortal. This time Rox would protect him. And when the next time came, maybe ze wouldn't screw it up so badly. The last thing Rox remembered before falling asleep was wondering if Ronnie and Alan were somewhere out there, too.

~

Sunday morning, Alan awoke and lay in bed. His coffee maker (Amazon was proving dangerous to his American Express card) kicked on, and the scent of the Pearl Street Joe blend began to waft through the apartment. Saturday had been spent holed up and thumbing his nose at the Filgrastim, taking hydrocodone-induced naps, eating, and urinating very, very gingerly.

Andrea called when he was working on his post-breakfast-at-noon cup of coffee and recommended phenaholycraphowdoyoupronounceitadine and Alan asked what it did.

"It anesthetizes your urinary tract including your urethra, but it makes your urine orange. Still, after a Foley catheter you might need it. Annabella Rose, you knock that off right this second!"

"Doggies, Mama!" Piped a little voice.

He really should not have looked up 'Foley catheter' on Google. That was a really stupid thing to do. "What did they to my... stuff?"

"Alan, I'm a nurse, you do not have to use delicate euphemisms like 'my stuff' for referring to your genitals. No doggies Annabella - all muddy. Dirty. Ick."

"Shh!"

"I don't believe it. Did you just 'shh' me?"

"Doggies wanna cookie."

"I Googled 'Foley catheter.'" His stomach did a slow flip and his stuff tried to hide up inside of him.

"Possibly not the smartest thing you could have done to yourself. There are times when you need to leave Google alone. Ma! Come get Annabella! No more cookies, you."

"How old is she?"

"Three. I love my kids, but three makes two look like general anesthesia. No Anna don't open-!"

There was a sound as if a crowd of demented tap-dancers had invaded the house. The doggies.

"What kind of dogs?" He was trying not to laugh.

"Chocolate Labradors. Three of them." Andrea took a very deep breath. "Ma?"

There was a brief conversation in Italian and the sound of the door opening and shutting again - followed by sudden quiet and birdsong. "Gimme a second."

"Okay."

There was the sound of keys, and going down a set of stairs. Then there was the sound of a car door opening, closing.

"The quietest room in the house." Andrea sighed in relief. "My minivan."

"Oh, my God. You are such a mom." Alan laughed.

"Don't laugh! It has to hold me, Carmine, the Nonnis, the kids, three dogs, one walker, Tito's soccer stuff, Annabella's stroller, and commute bags. It's got heated leather seats, cup holders, lots of room, and I even have a dvd player with a 17-inch screen." Andrea had a bit of swagger over her minivan and it made him smile. "Rainy weekends just do it to me - the kids are really active and you can only pacify them with Disney for so long. Now."

"You should be enjoying your weekend. I'm fine." He added, "The cheesecake was the best."

"Junior's. Carmine and I do date nights there. And you were not fine last I saw you."

"But I'm fine now." Alan reasoned. "I'm home, I feel pretty good, and UPS delivered my new slippers while I was out."

"Alan. You had a serious pain episode. You were in shock and a full ten on the Pain Assessment Scale." Andrea paused. "Could I ask who you were talking to?"

"Huh?" Alan frowned. "When?"

"You were looking past me, and I thought you were talking to Dr. Chowdree but he was in the room, not in the doorway. I turned to look, but there was nobody there."

"He must have got out fast. I think it was just a passerby. A younger guy in a black suit." There had been something odd about him, though. Hadn't there? "Not a doctor or anything."

Andrea was quiet for a long time. "You know. Sometimes pain makes your brain do funny things, or your brain does strange things when you're in pain."

"That sounded like it comes from experience."

"I was in a car accident when I was little. It was a wreck and I was hurt very badly."

"Did you see a man in a black suit?" Alan felt his skin break out in goosebumps.

"Yeah." Alan could hear the shiver. "And it made no sense for him to be where he was."

"I think that maybe it's a coincidence. You're right that the mind does weird things." Alan took a long drink of his coffee. "I mean, hurt - right? In shock. Scared."

"Did yours say anything, Alan?"

For a moment he thought of denying it. "He said 'Shh. You're not supposed to see me.' and then I... I guess the morphine hit."

"Alan, mine said the same thing - and when I woke up again, I'd been in the hospital for two weeks."

Alan could hear the rain start, the both of them were so quiet. "Some kind of psychopomp imprint. Afraid and in pain, maybe our ancient brains thought we were dying and our higher brains provided us with a psychopomp - an authority figure in a suit - to take us to whatever-after."

"But wouldn't it be something more traditional? I mean, I was raised as a Catholic-"

"And I was raised as an Evangelical Lutheran - a pastor's kid, no less. I don't think it has any bearing, otherwise we would have seen... I don't know." Alan got up and went to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and looking for the potato salad. "I mean, in psychological terms a person in pain or perceiving themselves as near death is in an altered state of consciousness, right?"

"Well, yes. The biochemical process of traumatic shock even when not followed by death causes a massive release of hormones and other substances within the body depending on the originating event." Andrea knew her stuff the way Alan knew his stuff, and he shut up to absorb it. "Hallucinations - olfactory, auditory, visual - are not unusual in the presence of severe pain. I remember some migraine and cluster headache patients would report someone being in the room with them - talking, standing just behind them or out of view, sometimes even touching them. I started nursing in an ER environment before I became interested in oncology."

As she talked, the tension went out of her voice and out of Alan's shoulders and he chuckled softly. "Look at us. We scared ourselves."

"Oh, you're right! We really did!" Andrea laughed. "I'd been carrying that around for a long time."

"Well, it's a big thing to carry around. You were a little kid. Was it a very bad accident?" Alan dug into the potato salad - it had a little grated something in it, something Dijonny, and some mix of herbs he couldn't identify.

"Yeah. An eighteen wheeler jumped the median. My dad and brother were killed, but my mother and I were in the back seat and literally blown out of the liftgate still buckled in."

"I'm so sorry." Alan was horrified that he'd even asked.

"People tell me that things happen for a reason. I never saw a reason for that."

"Sometimes, you know, I think that if my cancer happened for a reason it would make me madder than hell." Alan confided. "If someone was doing this to me, putting me through this, I'd be completely psychotic."

"I know, right? I mean, I've been a patient, and I've been a nurse, and if there was some... some agency behind all this..."

Alan let out a long breath. "You have no idea how good it feel to get that one off my chest. I'm a pastor's kid. Some part of me is still waiting for a lightning bolt."

"Alan? Anyone says that to you, you come find me and I will beat the snot out of them for being such an asshole. Then I'll tell them that everything happens for a reason."

He couldn't help it - Alan laughed until he cried. It was so good just to talk with someone, not about anything in particular, just about stuff. If asked, Alan would deny being lonely. He had what one of his teachers had called 'a rich interior life' - ignoring the fact that Alan developed that rich interior life because of the bullying and intolerance then present in his exterior life.

"When's your next injection of Filgrastim?"

To Alan's surprise, he was scraping the last of the potato salad out of the bowl. That was delicious! "Right after I put this dish in the sink, actually."

"Okay. Take your pain medication first."

"First?" Alan opened the 'fridge - the cleaning service personnel rigorously arranged his medications, and put his injectables in the butter niche. They generally came on Tuesday and Friday now, since those were days when he was out of the house for chemotherapy and infusion - leaving him the other days to huddle and recover. "Why before?"

"Because it's better to not let the pain get a grip first. What's the saying? It's more effective to unload a gun than to shoot into a bulletproof vest?"

"Andrea? That's birth control - specifically a vasectomy."

"The same principle applies!" She insisted. "Stop the bone pain before it starts."

"You're the boss." Alan opened the vicodin and washed two down with a glass of water, then took the little pre-filled syringe out of the box in the butter niche. "Can I tell you how much I hate this? I really, really do."

"Deep breath."

"Okay." One. Exhale. Two. Exhale. Three. Ow.

"Exhale."

"I'm okay." Alan put the emptied syringe in the sharps unit and chopped it.

"Shh, it's okay. Get your juice and climb back into bed."

There were just times when you had to listen to the boss. He'd showered and just put on a fresh pair of pajamas after breakfast. The bed was fresh and soft, and the new bed-lounge pillow (Amazon again - boredom, confinement, and a credit card) was super comfortable. "I'm going to get loopy."

"That's fine - loopy's better than hurting."

He could hear the seat adjusting on the other end. "Getting comfortable?"

"Heated seats and a cup holder - also? Quiet. It's a total Mommy Room."

He settled in and rolled his new bed-table into place. "Now there's an investment idea. Mommy Rooms."

"Padded. Soundproof. With a wine bar and chocolate buffet."

"Wine doesn't go with chocolate, Andrea."

"Alan, in one house I have my husband, three Labs, a seven year-old boy with soccer and dinosaur obsessions, a three year-old girl unable to hear the word 'no,' my grandmother Rinaldi, and Carmine's grandmother Capello. Wine goes with chocolate."

The rain pattered on the fire escape as they talked, and Alan realized that he was feeling muzzy and the bone pain wasn't coming and-

"Sleep well, Alan. I'll see you on Tuesday."

"... 'kay. Night." He set the phone down, turned on his side, and slept.

~

There were good ways to wake up in the morning, Rox thought. Showering with Eric and taking him back to bed was one of them. Ze tied him up, put his legs over zir shoulders, and then rode that boy's ass as if his mother had named him Six Flags. Once untied and capable of speech, Eric made zir a breakfast of crepes filled with strawberries, thick whipped cream, and topped with chocolate shavings - served to zir in bed.

Rox gave him an encore, and was pleased that Eric was an attentive and passionate top with stamina to spare.

When ze sent him on his way home, the little deviant turned the Walk Of Shame into the Stride Of Pride in a Sharps logo'ed scarlet hoodie under his black cavalry coat.

Now for another cup of coffee and the Sunday Times... and a black-and-white pigeon in the living room. Rox felt zir teeth go to full points and zir vision tinged with red.

"OUT!" Sang-froid had never been the thing, had it? This... invasion was the outside of enough. "Out or I have roast squab for dinner, William T. Spears!"

The pigeon blurred and then resolved into William - as ever in black and white. Perfect. Immaculate. And from the looks of it, absolutely furious.

"Grell Sutcliff, you overstep." The tone was so cold that Rox should have been able to see zir breath.

"And you have no right - I am not one of yours!" Scythespace, ever a part of a Reaper, provided zir with an axe with which to give forty well-earned whacks. "You have no say over me, no authority over me, and I give no fucks for the likes of you. NOW GET OUT!"

Mortal guise or not, ze was a god and that shout shook the brickwork. There was a fine line between love and hate, and this one had given that line one hell of a push. Where William was dripping icicles, Rox felt ze could breathe dragonfire. Evidently, Will had some sense that matters had entered a dangerous new territory - he immediately re-assessed.

"Grell-"

"-is decades dead. I am Rox Sharp. If you want to fully understand how much I had to change to survive, I am certain that that demon and the ancient would be more than willing to share their newfound understanding with you." An eyebrow twitch let zir know that both those beings were certainly on his mind, but the green-eyed monster was not idly named. "Your jealousy ended his life last time and lost two souls to the darkness. He has reincarnated, with the name no less, and that means She Who Spins The Threads has a hand in this."

Will glowered. For a cold man, his passions ran hot and deep - but deeper still was his loyalty to the Society. "With the full name?"

"Eric Ryan Slingby. He told me last night that he has a half-brother - Ronnie."

"All the same, you took him to your bed-"

And he had no right to be accusatory. "Well, at least nothing's changed there-"

"I gave you a trainee, Grell, not a playtoy-"

"And what, William, made you think I was merely playing with him?"

Hit. Score.

It gave zir a vicious satisfaction and ze dismissed the axe.

Unfortunately, ze'd also scored on zirself. Eric had loved Grell - as Senior, as lover - and Grell dumped him cold when Will only crooked a finger. Every decade after that, Grell found zirself still held in fond regard - but also at arm's length.

"I am not yours - no longer a Reaper nor your lover. Whatever you believe I owe you, that belief is one-sided at best. You uttered not a word when the elders broke my scythe and stripped my rank."

"I spoke for you." Will's jaw firmed. "I just did not at the time possess the rank or years to command their attention."

"Fat lot of good it did and not word one from you then 'til now." Rox turned on a heel and walked into her kitchen. "Let's see if we can set a new record."

If ze no longer had a scythe, words would do.

"Blast it you mad creature, give me something! The demon or the the elder - either would see your rank reinstated, your Deathscythe returned."

That was more emotion than ze'd heard from him in two centuries - and it was at least fifty years too late. "And what makes you think for a minute that I want that back? I have other satisfactions now, and the elder and the demon are paying in suffering for what they cost me."

"You know where they are?"

"Of course I do, you silly man. I put them there, and they will remain and suffer until my heart is satisfied enough to kill them. I'm in no hurry." Will's thunderstruck expression made her smile. "If you would be thought of no consequence, first be thought a fool. How handy that has been for me - even you thought me so."

"Grell-"

"Rox - short for Roxanne, when the gender still mattered to me. I have a birth certificate that says so, too. Grell was another person, and lived another life. Mourn her, if you can find it in you."

There was no reply, and when Rox turned he was gone.

There was wetness on zir cheeks. Sometimes zir soul leaked. That was all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter, Alan is fine - just ask him. An observer observes. Eric has a beef, and a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas and all who give me feedback, in whatever way. :)

Monday morning, Alan felt pretty good. He set up the bicycle with the pannier bags, bolted a carry-crate on the cargo-deck, and emptied his backpack. The extra carry-capacity was needed. The food was gone again, and while he understood that he ought to sign up with a meal service or go to the damn grocery store, there was something so satisfying in the meals from Pearl Street. Something as mundane as meatloaf and mashed potatoes, followed with apple cake made Alan's stomach happy. It was the oddest feeling.

The Financial District was largely deserted at six in the morning, and Alan was waiting when Ronald opened the doors. "Good morning, Ronald."

"Good morning, Alan. How are you feeling?"

"Better than some, and you?" If he was wearing a fleece stocking cap and a couple of extra layers, well, it was damp and chilly.

"Awesome! One of my brews has been picked as a finalist in the Five Boroughs Brew Bash." Ronald preened. "Fire Engine Red - a red wheat and honey lager with a little chipotle."

"Congratulations - what's first prize?" Alan brought in the panniers.

"A six month brewing facility and distribution deal with Hudson Micro Partners." Ronald opened the shades and turned on the signage. "Don't worry, I read the contract. The recipe is my intellectual property, and so is the artwork. I'll go get your bags from the back."

There was a person-shaped shadow traversing the hallway very quickly, and Alan pretended not to notice. It seemed that Ronald's butch honey brother was either very shy or a dire misanthrope. Alan was pretty certain that at the moment he himself was far from being presentable, much less date material. Alan also ignored the hushed exchange of 'Goddamnit, get out there. He doesn't bite!' and 'No. I've been cooking all night and I have swamp-balls. I'm going to take a shower. Get me feedback, Beer Brat.'

There was a deathly silence and Alan nonchalantly perused the cold case.

Puddings, yes. The lentils were good, too.

A scuffle.

Caprese sandwiches - on little rosemary rolls.

"Ow ow ow ow - fucker!"

Ronald.

What was this? Mini cakes? Flourless chocolate. Strawberries with cream and chocolate shavings. Cup tiramisu. Cookies? Spice dusted sugar cookies. Chocolate chip. Chocolate-chip-cherry oatmeal. Sour cherry mini pies. Peach mini pies. Pile. He really should get some soups. It was dreary as hell with all the rain. Tomato-basil. A rich cream of mixed mushrooms. Matzo ball - that was for tomorrow. Cioppino - with garlic bread.

"Curried butternut." Came the hiss from the hallway.

The large shadow was halfway down the hall, and Alan took a position between the cold case and the counter.

"No butternut soup. It's always too sweet - it's like drinking pumpkin pie." Alan replied.

"You have nine different desserts and let's talk about sweet. It's curried, not sugared." A gruff baritone, and somewhat indignant.

"Eric, move your ass." Ronald came out bearing three bags and the shadow beat a retreat down the hallway, and from the footsteps, apparently up the stairs.

The disappointed puppy face was back, both for Alan and Mr. Curried Butternut The Hot Butch Honey.

"Ronald-"

"You think he's cute, though! And he's checked you out a few times, but he's got his head all up his ass."

Wait. He'd been checked out by-? Never mind.

"Ronald, anyone laying eyes on him would think he's very handsome. I'd lay off calling him cute, however, unless you want to be noogied or dodging flung pies until you're thirty." Alan opened his wallet, smiling. "Now, I've added to the pile-"

A sigh. "He only acts like a gruff asshole - it's a front. Try the curried butternut?"

Alan gave into the fate's decree and added the curried butternut squash soup to the pile, then extracted two folded sheets of paper and handed it to Ronald. "Feedback."

It was exacting, too. The chef liked the spicy and was mostly subtle about it, but there were some very complex blends. Further, he was a rank hedonist when it came to deserts; he favored sensual but simply presented confections that seduced from the plate. However, considering some of the complex seasoning of the entrees, perhaps that was intentional. There was a quibble about the salt (too little) and the fennel (good Lord) in the bouillabaisse. The seasoning in the vegetable dishes was amazing - anything with potatoes Alan would willingly eat a bucketful.

Ronald was reading and chuckling. "Oh, he's going to have a ball with this! Expect rebuttal."

"Where did he train? Some of the seasonings say France, but others say Spain." Alan started distributing the haul as Ronald rang him up. "There's almost Cajun or Creole influence, too. Very Caribbean but with Mediterranean, too."

"Well, we grew up moving around pretty often - Paris, Berlin, Milan, London, Amsterdam, Vienna, Chicago, Atlanta, Miami. Eric has been cooking since I can remember." Ronald smiled. "He bounced around a lot, too. Miami, Aspen, Atlanta, Sun Valley, Myrtle Beach, New Orleans, San Francisco. He could chef anywhere."

"He's very talented, and he has his own kitchen so he can cook as he pleases. That's pretty unusual for a younger chef."

The Pearl Street Kitchen had only been open for a few months when Alan bought his place on Broad Street. It became his instant, every morning stop on the way to work.

For a moment, Ronald looked sad. "He's a good guy. Don't be put off."

"I'm not. I think that maybe your brother and I are just not good with people we don't know well." Alan admitted as he signed the receipt and added a comfortable tip. "I never have been, really."

"I know how to fix that!" Ronald's sunny demeanor came back from behind whatever cloud had dimmed it. "You guys should come with me to the Beer Bash on Saturday night."

Alan hated to shut him down. "I'll have to see how I'm feeling, and this thing throws so many change-ups that it's hard to make plans. Thanks for thinking of me, though."

He was in week three, and as hard as Alan was trying to handle it, he was deeply afraid that he was not. Andrea could only so so much as a professional and a person - she should not be lumbered with him in her off hours.

Back home, Alan answered some email from the office. His superiors checked in every Monday and Thursday morning with questions, and his salary was deposited like clockwork on Friday mornings. Several of his own investments were ripe for flipping, though until Alan had a better idea of his own physical condition, he really did not want to make a long term plan. As it was, he needed to rethink his longer-term strategies - or did he?

Was the chemotherapy working? What was scheduled for intensification phase? After this Friday he had only one more induction-phase session. It was frustrating, frightening, not to have something quantitative. Then there was the way he felt physically - always cold, tired, sometimes feverish, achy. After the anti-nausea and anti-anxiety meds wore off from a Friday infusion, he felt simultaneously nauseated and exhausted until Monday morning, then fatigued and doped up after Filgrastim left him crappy in general until Thursday.

"Stop. Breathe." Alan rested his forehead on the granite countertop. "Breathe. Don't wind up."

Alone with his thoughts was turning out to be the worst of all possible places.

Time to do things before the vicodin and the Filgrastim laid him out.

Yoga on the Wii. He'd only started a week ago, but if he did the whole program he felt about like he did after a good twenty laps. Squash on the Wii was not as impressive - Alan had a definite desire to get in there and smash, but playing on a digital court was just not very satisfying. He still had two more 'exercise and fitness' packs to evaluate this week - one that included strength training and pilates and the other a general racquet sports package.

Doing things kept him from introspection, and that was good because panic attacks quite frankly sucked - and not in the good, wet way. Ativan knocked them down, mostly by knocking him down, and when combined with the vicodin, Alan was worried about developing a massive pair of addictions. Then there was 'chemo brain' - what if that happened and he was stupid from tranks and painkillers? What if he already had it and didn't know it.

_Alan. Shut the fuck up and do some yoga._

Anything to take his mind off the current reality.

And, at times, that included stray thoughts of a hot butch honey in chef's whites.

Who had been checking him out.

When he stopped to think about it, it made him blush.

"Come on. You're twenty-eight. You've had lovers, boyfriends, and one-nighters. Get over it."

Alan did not think he was all that, but he was swimmer-fit and dressed well. The lovers and boyfriends left because they hated his hours. Flings and hookups were less demanding, but sitting here alone on the living room floor with the Wii's balance board, Alan wondered if maybe his energy and attention should not have been more... evenly distributed? Honestly, he hadn't felt alone or lonely before this. There was too much to do, places to go, and things to see. There was a world out there, and Alan wanted to live in it.

He could get a dog. Or a cat.

But what if he-?

"Yoga, Alan. Do not brain. Yoga."

And he did. It was harder than he imagined when he picked out the game, but it did keep his body too busy for his mind to start shenanigans. Then the doses of Ativan and vicodin wiped him out for the rest of the day - leaving him little to do but sleep and vegetate. He couldn't even read, much less play his violin, or follow a simple recipe. This was why he hated the medication - it turned him into an idiot.

All he could hope was that his neutrophils would get with the program and no more Filgrastim.

There was an email from his brother - sent to his work account, not his personal - doing what Teddy called 'Laying Down The Law.' Mostly this consisted of telling Alan to put his affairs in order, designate Dad as next-of-kin, and grant Ted power-of-attorney, and how to get right with the Lord. Alan wrote back with his attorney's name, number, and address with a directive to cease and desist. He should not have called in that vulnerable moment, as telling anyone in his family anything had never yielded any result other than a complete shitstorm.

A quick call to his attorney resulted in a return call from Mr. Conti, and Alan's reassurances that treatment was going well (without really defining that term). In turn, Mr. Conti reassured Alan that the firm would safeguard his privacy. After that, Alan was - all things considered - glad to take his medications, change back into his pajamas, and go to bed at one in the afternoon.

The next morning was an infusion day, but a short one. Alan packed just a couple of snacks and juices, his reader, medicines, and warm socks. Carmine picked him up at eight, and agreed that oatmeal-cherry-chocolate-chunk cookies were breakfast - they even had eggs. Alan split his cookie ration because eating four cookies for breakfast was vaguely naughty, and he wanted to meet Andrea with a clear conscience.

"Man, these are good! Where do you get them?" Carmine had a blissful expression as he dunked the rest of the cookie in his coffee.

"The Pearl Street Kitchen. It's my favorite local place." A three-story brownstone on a narrow horse-carriage street, found only when he was taking a direct walking route to work. "Everything's fresh every day."

"I'm going to check them out for sure. What else have they got?"

Alan was more than happy to tell him. "I hate meatloaf - and I love their meatloaf! No joke. And the soups are delicious - you just need to add salt, the chef undersalts on purpose."

"Oh, man. I'm hungry now."

Another meeting with this panel of doctors was another exercise in headbutting, and Alan dug in on the ANC. He didn't want to hear anything until that bloodwork was back with the neutrophil count - because when his second >1,000 microliters neutrophil level came back, he was quitting that stuff so fast-

"You think it's so wonderful, you can sign up for it." Alan snapped. "I'm the one who ended up Googling 'Foley catheter' on Sunday morning when I was turned into a beta-tester for a cross-reaction." No. He was not being a good patient. At the moment, he did not care. "I know how agony feels. I don't like knowing that."

"Medicine, especially oncology-" Dr. Chowdree was again the man on point for this, his colleagues sitting around like so many mannequins in white coats.

"Is an art, a science, and a crap shoot. I know that, but I was Black Swanned by a drug interaction known to happen and was not warned about the possibility." For that, Alan had the same contempt as he did for someone cooking the books and presenting them as pristine. "I'm a patient, not a set of data, and that was terrifying and hideously painful."

"I am sorry, but there was no way to tell-"

"I expect to be informed. Not informing me was a bullshit move." Alan sat back in the chair. "Now stop blowing sunshine up my ass and start informing because you lost a huge measure of trust last week."

As meetings went, it was productive. Alan found that with his smaller stature and slight appearance, people consistently underestimated his intelligence, his tenaciousness, and his temper. It was as he was handing people their asses on a plate that they'd realize the little guy was serious and quit playing games. The real hardball was over the pain and anxiety control medications, with no good routes to take out of the vicodin until his neutrophil count got with the program. The Ativan was the safest route for his anxiety - and he might be able to taper to one every other day.

All things considered, it was a 50/50.

He got ready for infusion, deeply relieved that this was a simple three-hour session instead of an all-day two-bagger. Just Pegaspargenase today. And the fucking Filgrastim.

Alan glanced nervously at the doorway, then laughed at himself. Scared of an imaginary man in a suit.

Andrea tapped at the frame, then stuck her head in and smiled. "I know. I caught myself looking, too. Stupid, huh?"

"Easy to laugh from at home on the couch..."

"Or the Mommy Room..."

"Yeah. Come on, we're being silly." Alan shook his head and opened his cooler bag to reveal peanut-butter-and-jelly cookies and apple-raisin oatmeal cookies. "Cookie?"

"Ooh. Carmine told me about these." A momface with petit silence and eyebrow. "Cookies are not breakfast, you."

"They have breakfast things in them! Oatmeal, wheat, fruit, eggs-"

"Chocolate-"

"In Europe, even in Italy, people have chocolate for breakfast. Also - Cocoa Puffs!"

All objections evaporated when Andrea bit into a PB&J cookie. "Oh, that's delicious!"

Another convert. "I told Carmine where they are. Also - meatloaf."

"I hate meatloaf - love meatballs."

"Meatballs are meatloaf - bite sized." He opened his shirt for the blood draw as Andrea leveled the recliner out.

"Meatloaf is nothing like meatballs." Andrea pulled up her mask and gloved up. "Any discomfort or swelling?"

"No, none." The ritual was actually very comforting, and Alan found himself relaxing. "Reversed proportions. Meatballs go in the red sauce, and red sauce goes on the meatloaf."

He managed to not need the tissues. Maybe he was getting on top of the needle problems.

Andrea covered him up.

"It's just a short session." Alan objected slightly from under the warmed blankets. "Let me know about the neutrophil counts."

"Have another cookie and I'll be right back."

~

Reaper Andrew Whitley paused as the nurse exited the patient's room and held his breath as her gaze paused on him, then a blink, and she continued on her way. That one could almost see Reapers, having seen one herself when very young. Now, perhaps having seen so many under the shadow, she perceived them more than most mortals could. This was his beat, but this was her territory, and Andrew respected the young mortal.

However, he had no collections scheduled until later this afternoon. His assignment this afternoon was altogether different - from outside of Manhattan division, from the UK Home Office of the Society. It began with Andrew's incident report - a routine sighting by a mortal near extremis. It took an extreme shock to the corporeal vessel to begin separation of the record. Honestly he'd thought the poor bastard was for the chop from the pain alone, but Humphries Alan Gabriel was not slated for collection. Instead, there seemed to be some interest in him at a very high level.

Andrew raised his phone and snapped a photo of the subject's face, editing in the name and vital information from the Akashic Records and sent it to his superiors. Mission accomplished.

A chime denoted an incoming message - two words:

'Maintain surveillance.'

It was signed by the Director-in-Chief of the whole damn UK - William T. Spears. The device chimed, letting Andrew know there was a collection in his immediate area.

A nurse and doctor ran by, and down the hall someone was breaking out the crash cart. Andrew sighed. They didn't know, and it always distressed him that they'd try so hard - as if corporeal death was not traumatic enough. Down the hallway and into a small room where Vitter, Reese Audrey was under the shadow. Andrew brought up the data on his phone and took out the small, grey-metal stylus.

"Collection of subject Gardner, Reese Audrey. Born 19 August 1944. Death from cardiac fibrillation." The commotion was intense and purposeful around the frail figure in the recliner. Audrey Gardner's gaze flickered above the oxygen mask as she perceived and watched him. Drawing the small stylus from the body of his phone, Andrew touched it to her flesh and released the record. "Record uploading."

They shocked her body, compressed her chest, put tubes into her throat and down her airway.

"No further notes." Andrew collected the soul and record. "Collection complete."

He pocketed his phone and went out into the corridor, watching Andrea Rinaldi as she exited the pharmacy office. And for a second, just one, the mortal looked right at him - and away again. It was not unusual for certain mortals - EMS, firefighters, law enforcement, hospice and nursing home workers, and medical personnel - to perceive them. They were a flicker of black in the peripheral vision, the brush of someone passing by in an empty hallway, the person at the scene that nobody quite remembered. The mind generally trained itself to unsee what it did not understand, but in certain cases someone from the office had to step in and reinforce that tendency with a dose of Lethe.

He liked her. He didn't want anyone to interfere with one of his favorite mortals. So long as she could convince herself that he was really not there, then nobody had to know.

~

Alan was actually able to stay awake for his treatment, albeit slightly groggy from the Benadryl, talking with Andrea on her rounds as she tended to him and four other patients on infusion. They talked about moving his Filgrastim to evening - his neutrophil counts were rising, but not there yet. If it was the only way not to blow a hole in the middle of the day, Alan would take it.

No Filgrastim until bedtime! It was like a getting snow day off from school.

Andrea was also able to cover the likely course of treatment in the ominously-named 'early intensification' phase. "I'm still going to be your nurse. Continuity of treatment is important - your caregivers know you."

It was caregiver - singular - and Alan's insides exploded in butterflies at the first day's schedule.

No Pegaspargase for two whole weeks. Intrathecal methotrexate. Infusion cyclophosphamide. Oral mercaptopurine. Another self-inject called cytarabine-

"It's not a self-inject. You'll have to come up here for that one and stay for some observation."

"For four days in a row for the first two weeks? And what's intrathecal?" He knew he wasn't going to like it when she held his hands to tell him and held him very tightly as he had a bad case of the shakes. "I had a spinal tap when I was admitted. It was really bad. Are there any alternatives?"

Andrea was so straight with him. God, Alan was grateful for that.

"A port in my HEAD?"

_NOPE._

"That's not used very often." Andrea opened Alan's juice for him and made him drink. "It's because cancer cells are tricky, hidey little shits. They can hide in your central nervous system. Some people do need to repeat this course, but that's at their doctor's discretion."

"How many?" Alan drank down the Mean Greens.

"Eighty percent of patients with your type of leukemia enter remission within the induction phase, but it's a temporary remission - not a knockout." Andrea explained. "It only covers the blood and bone marrow. During first-phase intensification, we consolidate and intensify the gains in the blood and marrow, and prepare for the second phase - when we go after it in the central nervous system with radiation, CNS prophylactic chemotherapy, and add tyrosine kinase inhibitors that prevent more blasts from developing."

Alan took a shaky breath and leaned back on his neck pillow. "You shoot so straight with me, and you've been so much help. I can honestly say that I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You don't have a caretaker - so I'll take care of you as much as you'll let me."

Alan considered his family, then asked, "I'm not on good terms with my family. I can honestly say that before I found out I had leukemia that I hadn't spoken to any of them in a decade. Can a next of relative do anything about my treatment? Interfere with my directives?"

"I can't advise you there, but I'll refer you to a lawyer who can. He's really good and makes it stick." Andrea shook her head. "Some people think that the hardest part of this job is dealing with the outcomes that aren't like the ones on the brochure. The hardest thing for me has been seeing my patients get their lives taken over; partners barred, fights over money, patients guilted into treatment after treatment, or abandoning effective treatment. All kinds trouble when all of this, everything, should be about the patient and what they want. Not anyone else."

That was a nasty jolt. "I never thought of that."

"Alan, there are times we've had the cops up here. I'll get you his business card and you call him, okay?"

"I will. I promise."

Alan went home a little after noon with more pages for his binder and had a long talk with attorney Hal Foreman about a) his family, b) his assets, c) his wishes and directives, and d) how to make sure that everything was handled. Alan needed an attorney to draw the documents for a living trust, coordination with his financial services, a professional fiduciary to hold his financial power of attorney and administer the living trust, and another professional guardian to hold his medical power of attorney in the event he couldn't make decisions about his own care...

For fuck's sake, it was almost less complicated (not to mention less expensive) to die.

The observation actually made Carmine laugh and that made Alan laugh in turn.

"Yeah, but it's better to just get it done. That way even if nothing happens, you're still covered."

Carmine was taking the scenic route. "You'd better be billing me for this - and I can't think that my brother's going to give up on this easily. For a preacher's kid from Idaho, I make a lot of money."

"I bill by the hour - livery, not a cab. I'm just giving you your money's worth." Carmine laughed again. "Besides, Didi-"

"What?" Alan asked, unable to believe his ears..

"Didi - Andrea. The wife. It's her nickname." Carmine grinned. "The first time I called her that, we were both still in elementary school. We were having this fight over Real Ghostbusters. I said Janine couldn't have a proton pack because she was a girl. Didi nailed me right in the nuts."

"That's adorable. Painful, but adorable." Alan snorted. "She'd make CEOs I've met run for cover."

"Takes no shit - that's my girl."

At home, he laid out all his notes and started researching, There were professional guardians who would do all this stuff for you - consolidating the legal, medical, and financial aspects into one firm. Most of them seemed geared to the elderly with dementia or the developmentally disabled - not wealthy homos with cancer and grabby next-of-kin. Hal Foreman had sent a list of firms and services to Alan's email, and would coordinate with the one that he chose.

Research was good. Except when it was about yourself and your chances. Andrea had not pulled any punches, Alan was deeply gratified by that. He opened the Preggo Pops as the nausea really kicked in. Andrea - he had a giggle over 'Didi' - bought him the Costco-sized jar. Setting the alarm on his phone to tell him when to take the Filgrastim and go to bed, Alan sank back into his research, letting his brain feed on something other than its own internal processes for a change.

"I'm okay. I'm going to be okay." Alan murmured to himself, tugging the cashmere throw around his shoulders. "I'm doing just fine."

~

"Bullshit!"

"But he liked everything else. It's a minor point, Eric."

"Fennel is not a minor point in fucking bouillabaisse, Ronnie." Eric groused, reading feedback presented with bullet points on the neatly printed two sheets of paper. "Aside from the saffron it's one of the most characteristic notes in the whole goddamn thing."

Ronnie rolled his eyes as he flopped into the purple people-eater sofa. "Out of everything else you fixate on that."

"And I do not undersalt. A chef who relies on salt or sugar to carry his food is a burger-flipper." Eric tucked his towel around his waist and cut himself a big slice of lemon-blueberry muffin bread. "It's not my fault he eats half-assed cuisine in tourist joints that are timid with the seasonings."

"You wanted feedback." Ronnie added. "If it helps, he thinks you're cute."

"You do realize I have a knife in my hand?" The bread only needed a little butter and Eric bit in with gusto. "I can admit that he has some points."

Perhaps Rox had blunted some of his sharper edges. It was hard to get worked up about anything when you'd had all your kink-spots scratched and come three times in twelve hours. Even if it was two days later, his ass still had fond memories of Rox whenever he sat down. Ze had read him like a book, honestly. However, Eric admitted, as a bottom in the hands of a capable top, he was about as subtle as all the neon in Times Square.

Rox was very, very capable and Eric had been delightfully surprised.

Titties were fun, too.

"What?" Ronnie asked.

"What what?"

"You're blushing."

"Shut up." Because, actually, he was. For fuck's sake!

"You got laid! YES! FINALLY!'" Ronnie proceeded to get up and do some twerking dance around the living room, singing, "Eric got laaaaaa~aaaid!"

Eric glared. Ronnie was a world-class chain-jerker - and Eric should know because the Beer Brat had learned everything from him. The things that came around to bite you in the ass. Fortunately Eric had good aim and took the chance to pelt the Beer Brat with those asinine little throw pillows until he fled into the night.

Or at least into the bathroom, preparatory to fleeing into the night.

"And shave, you ass!" Honestly. The face-weeds had to go. And the knit cap. Did Ronnie own anything to wear but skinny jeans and old bowling-alley and gas-station shirts? "Put something nice on! Like a shirt without someone else's name on it!"

Heaven knew how many times Ronnie had just flipped him off behind the bathroom door. But, really, how long could he  go around looking like some satire site's cartoon hipster?

Eric finished his breakfast for dinner, then put on his whites. There was a good bit to do downstairs in the way of use-up-or-toss out, making stocks and sauce bases, and he fully expected to cook until three this morning.

The walk-in freezer was stocked with tubs of bones, trimmings, vegetable peels, and leftover bits from previous nights. These went into brown stock and demi-glace, chicken stock, turkey stock, vegetable stock, fumet de poisson, and court bouillon. The doughs for breads were ready for a second rise, and the cookie doughs had been resting for a full day. The grill needed firing and so did the stone oven for the breads. He sliced the meats and cheeses for sandwiches, prepared the garnishes and spreads. Roasted red pepper and eggplant soup, garlic roasted potato soup, and kale with linguicia soups took up three five-gallon stockpots. The breakfast dishes were done first, the baked goods second, soups and lunch selections third, desserts fourth.

It was midnight when Eric sighed, swept the sweat-soaked bandana off his head and walked down the kitchen hallway into the darkened storefront. It was a point of pride that after three years here, Eric had almost no leftovers at the end of the day. There was a roast beef, mushroom and brie sandwich, a small side of Dijon potato salad, and one of his beloved Manhattan Special coffee sodas.

His phone vibrated in his back pocket and he pulled it out - then smiled and answered. "Rox."

"Hello, pretty man." Ze purred. "You need to come see me tomorrow afternoon - we never got to those feathers on your magpie."

Jesus. He had to replace the Gates because if a phone call was all it took to get him hard-

"Red, you sound like chocolate ganache tastes."

"Is chocolate another of your kink spots?" There was the sound of splashing, the sensuous sound of water over flesh. "Should I get an icing bag and write naughtiness on your skin in Scharffenberger?"

"Yes." Great. The dick preempted the brainstem and hijacked the mouth. "Now I have to finish the grab-and-bag dinners with a boner, you sadist. And-"

Something... someone moved in the shadows of the hallway. A shadow in the shadows. Eric put his hand on the knife used to cut the sandwiches.

"Eric?" Rox prompted. "Are you all right?"

"Ronnie?" Eric called. "Hey, bro. You're back early."

No answer. Eric drew the knife from the sheath. How had anyone gotten in? Everything was locked and barred, and the fire-escape operated from the inside.

"Eric?" The sultry tone disappeared, replaced with something sharper than ordinary concern.

"Rox? Give me a second. I think there's someone in here."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> Eric has a visitation. Rox to the rescue. Ronald's evening is full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas and all who give me feedback, in whatever way - my exotic dancers strew rose petals in your path.

It was a tenet of a Reaper's education that reincarnates carried no memories of previous lifetimes. The record, after all, was separated from the soul and there should be nothing returned to the cycle but a soul in pristine state, ready to generate a new record over its lifetime. It was commonly accepted in practice that reincarnates did at times carry over some manner of imprinting from high-impact events.

William was far from interested in theory or generally accepted practice. He had located Alan Humphries by a chance report of a mortal near extremis observing a Reaper. Keeping an eye on Grell had yielded not one, but two of the Lost Souls. Eric Malcolm Slingby, Alan Henry Humphries, and Ronald Lawrence Knox had been Lost and once Lost should have been beyond finding. Now they were here, mortal, and essentially the same as they had been.

But the question remained.

What, if anything, did they remember?

From an examination of the premises, Eric Ryan Slingby was very much in love with knives. And at the moment, he was holding a 30cm cook's knife of exquisite sharpness. Though William could not actually be harmed by mundane steel, and this Slingby was no Reaper, that call from Grell placed a time limit on William's visit here.

"Eric Slingby." William stepped into the light, adjusting his spectacles. "Do you remember me?"

"Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here? I'm calling the cops."

This was no good. In the heightened fight/flight process, this Slingby likely could not remember he had a phone in his hand, much less something from another lifetime. William removed a small aerosol bottle from his pocket and became rather nastily aware that Slingby was in Position 1 from Elementary Bladework for Close Quarters. A knife in the viscera would be inconvenient and he had to work fast - and try not to damage Slingby. A man he once had every intention of seeing dead for becoming _anatithemi_ , and had in fact seen die, must not be harmed.

William advanced too quickly for mortal eyes and depressed the button, giving Slingby a face full of Mnemosyne - the water of memory.

And it was like watching a small animal being struck by an automobile; helpless against a crushing force with the power to end its life, unable to understand why, left suffering and in pain. It took a few minutes for William to extract what he needed to know. There was no true memory of anything other than this life, but the impressions of the former existence went deep. William took out a second small aerosol bottle, and with unaccustomed pity, gave Eric Slingby a dose of Lethe and a peaceful forgetting. It was a small thing to lift the limp body, carry it to one of the big reclining chairs in the back of the shop, and leave Eric Slingby - past and present - there in peace.

He Stepped, traveling in the ether from New York to the London headquarters of the Society with little effort, and entered his office. It would be better not to encounter Grell in a homicidal protective rage, or any other type of homicidal rage. The life of an exile had caused further extreme expressions of instability - though describing Grell as extreme, homicidal, or unstable was like describing water as quite wet.

Settling behind his desk, William tapped his work surface to life and began to search the archives of the Akashic Library. Lost Souls had been found, and it was the first time any Lost Souls had ever been found. There were things to arrange - including interviews with Humphries and Knox, and trying to fix... other things. Things that perhaps he ought to have given his attention before now.

~

Ze came in a storm of vermillion rage, Stepping into the ether and exiting on the sidewalk outside of 60 Pearl Street. A look through the roll-down security door and ze was able to Step into the storefront. Rox knew who that intruder had to be and she would paint the walls with his blood, then eat his still-beating heart.

And then ze had to abort that plan to take care of Eric.

It had been close to a century since ze had seen the effects of a Menemosyne/Lethe double punch - and that had been on another Reaper. Will could well have killed him from the shock.

"Come on, sweetie." It took little to hold him in place, restrain his struggles. "Shh. Rox is here."

Eric was disoriented and sweat-soaked, wild-eyed and possibly not too sure where or when he was. Rox simply restrained his arms, held him so that he couldn't hit, and spoke calmingly.

Rationality returned slowly, but he called her by name. "Rox, did I have a flashback?"

"Yes, sweet boy. You did." Not entirely on his own, but it was a flashback. "You said you thought someone was in the store with you, and then you were yelling."

Actually, it had been screaming. Terrified and desperate screaming.

_Will. When I get my hands on you, you will wish that I still had my chainsaw._

"Need a favor, Rox." He was shaking, his voice low and hoarse. "Upstairs in the freezer there's a blue tub of brownies in waxed paper. I need one. Just one."

"Fine, but you're coming up with me." Ze'd get him tucked in, soothed, and watch over him. Let that bastard show his face.

"... you can't say anything about the sofa." Eric was pale and sweating, still shaking. "No matter what."

"What? You've blown your valves." Rox helped him up, supporting him up the stairs to a landing with an Artes Nouveau door with a transom and a frosted glass window gave the place a rather lovely New York noirish effect. It stood slightly ajar and ze shouldered through. "Why would I say anything about the bloody... purple passion pit?"

It was quite visible from the hallway, a respectable nineteenth-century entry of wainscotting and plaster with a hall-tree. In fact, it stuck out like a seventies-era sore thumb - driven into one's eye. Aesthetics completely offended, Rox simply figured that nothing worse could happen the rest of the day and helped Eric to it.

"Ronnie." Eric offered by way of explanation. "Ace kid, great brother, awesome brewer."

"Who needs a Williamsburgectomy." The current term was 'hipster' - but ze'd been through 'bohemian' and 'beatnik' and 'hippie' and so on and so forth. She went to the kitchen and opened the freezer. "Nuke it for how long?"

"Just one minute." Eric was sitting knees on elbows, head bowed and fingers laced behind his neck. "Rox, I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened down there. I really thought there was someone there-"

Ze unwrapped the brownie and put it on a plate. "Eric? You wouldn't apologize for being kneecapped. You wouldn't apologize for having a coronary. Don't apologize because you have post-traumatic stress disorder. But I don't see how something chocolate will help?"

Eric gave a soft, rusty laugh. "It's not the chocolate, Rox. It's a certain ingredient in the mix. I can't take the side-effects some of the medicines they gave me. Antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, tranquilizers - know what depresses me? My hands shaking like I have Parkinson's, can't do anything but watch television, and can't get hard much less come."

Eric the Former had been fond, from time to time, of opium - but this was a new century. "Cannabis, then?" Ze tapped the time into the microwave and started it.

"It helps. I can sleep, work, drive, you know - function." Eric ran his fingers through his fauxhawk and then bowed his head again. " I... I thought I was getting better."

"You are. You're not dead, you're here and working, making a living in your very own place." Rox took the brownie out, and then opened the refrigerator. You could not have something like this without milk. It was a law, ze thought. "If what was broken twinges from time to time and drops you on your arse..."

"More experience, Rox?"

Ze put the milk away and went back to him. "I'll tell you some day, but the short form is that some people hurt me very badly and I lost all that I loved." Two of those beings were most regretful if not actually penitent, and as much as ze wanted to mete out such to Will, when you had to kill someone you loved so much, you did it quickly - no matter how much you'd suffered. 

If you could kill them at all.

Ze could have.

Ze didn't.

"I have to finish the dinners, and I was going to eat-"

"You are going to eat the brownie, and you are going to rest." Put the foot down on that fast, because Eric could talk himself into believing he was fine. Ze handed him the plate and glass. "Now tell me what to do down there. I can just put things aside and you can finish them when you're not still sweating as if you ran the Ascot stakes."

"Rox, your Brit is showing."

"Less yapping, more eating." Ze looked at him until he took a bite and a swallow of milk.

"How did you get in, Rox? I know the gates were down and locked."

Ze hated to do it. Raising a finger to her lips, Rox said, "Shh."

Eric's eyes fluttered closed and he sank back into the sofa cushions, but not quickly enough to stop him from whispering a confused, "Red?"

Ze hated crying. Ze hated crying worse than anything ze could imagine because while bones could be broken, guts pincushioned with blades, and skin burnt, those things would heal without a trace or memory of hurt. Rox hated crying because somewhere inside of her some wound refused to heal, the loss would not close over, and ze still bled.

Rox ate the rest of the brownie, drank the milk, and went downstairs to make it look as if there had been a break-in.

~

Ron parked in the alley between Pearl and Stone streets, grumpy at four in the morning. You'd think that people would be happy for him, getting a finalist in the Brew Bash out of the three brews he'd presented for consideration.

Man. It had not worked out that way.

So, here he was - sober, unlaid, and broke because he'd wanted to celebrate a little. It was kind of a hard way to go to take a girl out to a few of the good galleries and dinner at Brooklyn Fish Camp only to spend the evening being told that you were selling out and other pretentious shit. Parking the seventies-vintage Gran Torino wagon, Ronnie got out and covered it up with the fitted car cover. The pigeons around here took vicious exception to the green pearl finish.

Inside, Ron paused. The kitchen was not usually the way Eric left it, and normally his brother would be putting finishing touches on his production around this hour of the morning. There was always a plate left out for Ron, too.

"Bro? Eric? Hey - you home?" Ron went upstairs, where the flicker of the television was the only thing in the darkness of the living room. "Are you all ri- Hello."

Eric was home, but either passed out or deeply asleep in the arms of the longest-legged redhead that Ron had ever laid eyes on.

"Hello, you must be Ronnie." She smiled at him. "So pleased to meet you."

She had a warm, rich voice that was low and kind of thrilling, tinged with a slight English accent. Ronnie was confused because Eric = GAYGAYGAY and Wow!Redhead = WOMAN and it did not compute because those heels that miniskirt those shoulders and all that long red hair. Ronnie nudged Eric from 'nope' past 'maybe' and into the 'most likely' column of the 'Goes Both Ways' chart.

"Good morning, Miss." Ronnie tipped his porkpie hat and then set it on the edge of the sofa. "Um."

There was simply no good way to ask what your ostensibly gay older brother was doing in the arms of an utter knockout.

"I was on the telephone with Eric and it seems he had a rather horrific post-traumatic episode. I rushed over and... well, he wasn't responding. I'm afraid I had to break in at your sidewalk vault door."

That got Ronnie's attention and he took in the empty milk glass and plate with brownie crumbs - which explained the passed-out state.

"Oh. Oh, crap. He hasn't had one of those in a long time." Ronnie knelt down and kissed his brother's cheek. Poor Eric. Goddamnit. "I can take care of him."

"Should we put him to bed?"

"No. It's better for him out here." In the open. No closed doors. There were times when Ron was of the opinion that Eric's stay in the mental hospital, while life-saving, had become part of his problems. "When he wakes up, he'll know where he is. Thank you for taking care of him, Miss-?"

The lady extended a hand. "I'm Rox Sharp."

"Eric's tattoo artist." Eric had not mentioned that Rox was a knockout. Ron nudged Eric back into the 'maybe' column. "I'm pleased to meet you."

Rox had a grip on her, too.

"And I'm pleased to meet you - Eric talks about you in such lovely, affectionate terms."

"Do they include 'Beer Brat?'" Ron cleared away the dishes. "Could I get you something? I should go down to the kitchen and see what still needs doing to open in the morning."

"Anything would be lovely. My hours are ridiculous and I have to admit I was calling to sweet-talk the chef out of something scrumptious and sinful." She smiled, winding the end of one of her braids around her finger. "I cleaned up a little down there - there wasn't anything still on the stove or in the ovens, so I put everything in the big refrigerators along the back wall. I could help you, if you like."

Ron's mental sex math abruptly resolved itself. Rox. Saturday. Toolbox. The Stride Of Pride in the red hoodie on Sunday morning. Ron put Eric firmly in the 'DING DING DING' column of the Swings Both Ways chart.

"Did he mention anything he was doing?" For some reason, the way she was dangling her shoes from her toes was... pleasantly distracting. "He's really methodical, and if I screw up I'll have to join the Foreign Legion."

"Goodness, are they still doing that? How ridiculous." Rox laughed, and several parts of Ron's anatomy really enjoyed it. "He mentioned assembling dinners?"

Relief. "I can do that, and it won't take too long. Is there something you'd prefer?"

"Hm. Something spicy, and a little indulgent. You look as if you know how to please the ladies, so why don't you pick for me, hm?" Rox patted Eric's head. "I'll take good care of him."

"Yes, ma'am." He headed downstairs with his head and hormones spinning.

Assembly did not take that long, just package the entrees and mix/match sides, then put them in the glass-door refrigerators. The baked goods were ready for the cases, and the impulse items for the reach-in next to the cash register. Ron ground the coffees, set up the cream-and-sugar station, and brought in the deliveries from the dairy and Juicy Lucy's on the front stoop.

Ms. Sharp also appeared to be a first-class lockpicker - the Bilco seemed none the worse for wear, but she'd done a damned dangerous thing, leaping down into the basement like that. Ron picked out a plate of finger foods - stuffed mushrooms, spanakopita, mini brie bites and such - for Ms. Sharp. He did like to please the ladies, and the ladies liked a variety.

~

Eric, all evidence presented, could only conclude that his head had really done a number on him. Ronnie was protective and Rox was comforting, but Eric was very badly shaken - even to the point where it became difficult to go do the marketing for the business. When he was working, it was with all the lights on in the front of the shop, and he spent some money to put new lighting in the hallway between shop and kitchen.

It was a fucked kind of life when your own brain was your worst enemy. Ronnie didn't go out Tuesday or Wednesday night, just to stay home and mother-hen him. Rox tried to chivvy him, but Eric dug in. There was no telling what his brain might decide to do.

"Eric, you didn't do this to yourself."

"Rox, I had such a bad flashback that I don't remember what happened." He was piping caramel lace across bittersweet chocolate, talking to Rox on his Bluetooth. "I could have been psychotic, or violent. Bad enough that I hallucinated someone in there with me."

"I know it feels safer to just hide-"

"But the thing is that it really doesn't - no place feels safe. Not even in my own head." Setting aside the icing bag, Eric frowned as something tickled his memory, then dismissed it. Of course it was deja vu - how many times had he held an icing bag, for fuck's sake? "And the thing is that I know I could be violent."

"Have you ever beaten anyone?" Rox asked.

"Well. Not really. Some fag-bashers and bar fights." Eric had a temper, that much he knew. When he fought it was a cold cunning that often scared his opponents worse than his fists.

"Self-defense doesn't count. Seriously - beaten someone, hurt someone for no reason, started something just to end it violently?"

"Rox, in dreams I sometimes do. I've dreamed of murdering Gary, Victor, Bradley - all of those Russian Hill assholes." Those dreams were full of bloody fury - gore and the crunch of bones, a wooden handle transmitted each blow up Eric's arms to his shoulders. "I could see them turned into smears on the sidewalk and then throw a kegger in the cemetery, using their graves as the biffy."

"After everything they did to you, after the hell that they put you through, if you didn't dream of butchering every last one, I'd say that would be the big sign of something wrong."

"There's just scary shit in my head." There was a side of himself that made him very afraid, because that side grinned at him from the darkest shadows with very sharp teeth and gleaming green eyes. "And that scary shit in my head is me."

"Eric? When it stops being scary? When you think that, "Hey. That's a GOOD idea!" That's when you need to worry."

"Why do you make so much fucking sense when I just want to sit on the floor and scream?" His shoulders and neck were aching, and Eric pressed a thumb to one temple to ease a headache. "My shrink never made this much sense."

"True maturity endows you with expereience. Experience is the wisdom to recognize the sound of shit hitting the fan and remembering to duck this time. Come over."

"I'm icing a chocolate-caramel cake." It was intricate, swirling filigree work. It took a lot of concentration and it kept him calm.

"Bring the cake."

The thing was that Rox hit every one of his kink spots - service, sensation-play, bondage, ass-play - and a few Eric never even knew he had. That was something Eric had not given to Gary - and in retrospect, Eric should have run like hell from a guy he wouldn't trust with a pair of handcuffs.

"By the way? You screwed up my gaydar - but you've borked Ronnie's girldar six ways from Sunday." Eric grinned. Ronnie was crushing and it was fucking adorable. "He calls you Ms. Sharp."

Eric could hear the facepalm. "I knew I shouldn't have flirted with him. He was just so young and wide-eyed and puppypuppypuppy that I could not resist."

"It's all right, Ronnie's a charming little shit. You have no idea what I go through to keep that boy in rubbers." Ronnie had been on and on about Rox's legs. "It gets expensive."

Rox chortled. "I'd imagine when you were younger-"

Eric laughed, chagrined. "Okay. Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Dish, Eric."

A man in his thirties really did not need to blush over his twenties. "Okay, I did my share of test-driving-"

"What did you just call it?" Rox crowed. "Test-driving?"

"I like good dick, I cannot lie!" Oh, man. 

"Harlot. Libertine. Voluptuary."

"Sorry, not sorry." Eric added, "And I like being called naughty names."

Wait. Five minutes ago he was going to sit on the floor and lose his mind, and now his dick decided to speak up.

"Once upon a time, Eric, being called a gourmand or a gourmet was a very naughty thing. It spoke of fleshly pleasures, revelry, and sensuality."

"Of which I heartily approve." Eric finished the filigree of caramel and then took a rack of madelines, affixing them to the sides of the confection with more ganache.

"How close are you to being done with the cake?"

"Rox, I've been cooking all night." Cooking was hard work, and a kitchen was a place of heat and humidity - you sweated. Everywhere. "Swamp balls. Seriously."

"Eric. I posses a shower. I also possess balls, and you are unlikely to scare me with a condition I have known myself." A high-heeled foot went down audibly. "Finish up, pack the cake, and meet me out front in fifteen."

"Do you really want me to come over, Rox? I'm such a fucking mess." Eric told the dick to shut the fuck up, and who was doing the thinking around here?

"Again - I have a shower. Or a tub."

"I meant that I'm a mental case." One did not spend almost a year as an inpatient at a psychiatric hospital for shits and giggles.

"Darling? For one raised so unconventionally as yourself, you should know better than to fall for the baldfaced lie that is 'being normal.'" Rox's voice dripped scorn. "I find your reactions and efforts to cope far more honest and healthy than the pretentious flatulence spouted by coddled minds whose idea of trauma is having to wait fifteen minutes in line at Starbucks to find that their parents have not refilled their debit card."

"Rox? You make sense. That scares me."

"When it stops scaring you, pretty man, then you should worry." Eric heard the jingle of keys. "See you in fifteen. Bring the cake."

~

Ron came home to a note that made him smile. On the kitchen whiteboard was Eric's scrawl was:

_Ronnie - I've gone to Rox's. I'm not jumping off a bridge. Dominic's had special on littleneck clams and mussels so I did them Portuguese style with linguicia. Your share in is the cocotte in the bread oven keeping warm. Just pour it into the sourdough boule. See you this afternoon._

As envious as Ronnie might be, he was deeply glad that Eric was bouncing back a little better than he usually did from a bad brain day. Rox had a lot to do with that, he was sure - that was an amazing lady.

And one, Ron was sure, who was very far out of his league.

Everything was ready to go for the day, all Ron had to do was set up the cream and sugar station. Alan's haul was in three bags in the cooler, and there was a rebuttal in an envelope.

"For fuck's sake, Eric. You sound like you're channeling Julia Child." Ron read the rant against timid seasoning and over-salting, then was somewhat appeased when his brother actually thanked Alan for the effort he put into the feedback. "About time you admitted that someone has a point, you blockhead."

If anyone at the Food Channel was looking for a 6'3" homo with a booming voice and a serious attitude - backed up by sterling skills - Ronnie would put his brother up in a second.

The bread was still warm, and Ronnie took the little enameled pot from the warmth of the oven and poured the contents into the round of bread. The broth was something Ron knew by heart, water, white wine, salt, thin slices of lemon, then black peppercorns, bay leaves, thyme, and tarragon. Eric went the extra mile by charring the smoked linguicia with onions and tomatoes before adding them to the broth.

Five minutes later, the last bit of broth-soaked bread went down and Ron flopped back in his recliner. Gooooood. Too much of that and he wasn't going to be able to wear skinny jeans.

Though perhaps that was Eric's goal. Eric despised skinny jeans for reasons unknown. Ron wore them to jerk Eric's chain and because girls all stared at his butt. Though lately a lot of his girls had been chewing on his butt.

Truth be told, he was getting a little weary of being told that he was selling out. Pearl Street Brewhouse had been born in the basement with a couple of five-gallon glass jugs, yeast from Eric's pantry, a tattered copy of 'The Home Brewer's Bible' and financing via the tip jar on the counter. Fuck anyone who would make fun of his learning curve from Eric spitting his first attempt discreetly into the sink to getting a one-in-five chance at having a distribution deal.

You'd think that someone aside from Eric and Alan could be happy for him.

He went upstairs around two-thirty and got into bed, leaving the rough sketch for Fire Engine Red on his tablet. No matter what he did, the redhead looked like Rox.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter, Ronald gets it. Eric got it. Alan keeps telling himself he's fine. Andrea has a lot to say. And phones happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all and forgive this chapter - work was insane, and it is unbeta'ed. Please let me know what you think, for such is food and drink to the story.

Alan awaited Ron promptly at six, smiling and wishing him a good morning. Despite the extra layers and cap, Alan looked worse. How anyone could lose weight on Eric's food for three meals, two desserts, and two snacks per day was a question that had a bad answer and Alan kept Ron gently at arm's length. He didn't want to drive Alan off like some feral cat, as leery of kindness as of cruelty.

"Good morning, Alan. How're you feeling?"

The reply was always something that could be parsed many different ways. Alan was not fine, and did not want to say so for reasons of his own. Ron, having had to navigate Eric's bad brain days, understood that and it worried him nonetheless. In a town full of assholes, and a neighborhood teeming with them, a truly good person was a treasure.

And the first thing Alan opened - not the cookies or the pudding - was Eric's rebuttal.

"Tourist cafes with timid seasonings? Burger flippers?" Alan read down the page, adjusting his glasses somewhat indignantly, then looking at Ron. "Did I really need the history of fennel?"

"He can be a little obsessive about seasoning." Understatement of the year, but Alan was laughing now. "I did mention once that he can be an ogre."

"It looks as if he hit every seasoning profile in his repertoire." Alan was going through the bags with a gleeful expression as he bagged his take into the panniers and backpack. "Lots of Mediterranean this time and some Cajun/Caribbean profiles, too. Even Pacific Rim styles!"

Eric often said that food, like flowers, had a language of its own. Ron had come to understand a lot of what Eric had to say was said from the kitchen. What was he saying to Alan with a mad binge of seasoned goodies?

"Now, how is your brewing contest? The finals are this weekend?" Alan squeezed an amazing amount of food into his backpack. "He made Whoopie Pies?"

"This weekend, and I'm representing Manhattan. The contest starts with a load of brews, then starts whittling them down by neighborhood."

"I didn't know there were brewers in the Financial District."

"Anyone with the money for a set-up and some brew kits can call themselves a brewer, and just about every restaurant wants a bottle with their name on it." Ron smiled. "Eric's been my lab rat since I started - and he's so picky that it's been great for my skills."

"How did you become interested in brewing?"

"Well, it was after Eric came home from San Francisco." They put Eric on a Greyhound with a suitcase, a bag of medicines, a California Victim's Compensation Fund check, a massive settlement check from Victor Chen's law firm, and another check from Bradley Duncan's medical malpractice insurer.

It had been a hard winter. Mom had a bad fall and the hip replacement had not gone well. All those years of rock and roll had a lot of items on the tab.

"I took a semester off to take care of my mother, and everyone was getting a little cabin fevered that winter. Eric has a thing for used book stores and old cookbooks, and he brought home this little paperback-"

But most of the time Eric drifted around like a ghost, disappearing once for two days and turning up again with a biohazard symbol the size of Ron's spread hand inked into his flesh. Ron left those things unsaid.

"And the first one, Alan, it was sooooo bad-" Eric said that he'd had worse things in his mouth, but not by much. "But he told me to keep trying because I'd get better at it. He'd get me all this crazy shit - whatever I asked for."

"He loves you." Was it his imagination, or did Alan sound a little wistful? "Your mother has to be proud - does she live here with you?"

Ow. Eric was right, you never noticed it still hurt until something banged on it. "She passed the first August that the place was open."

Alan looked stricken. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

"It was really rough on both of us." But if a packed memorial service was a measure of a life well-lived, then Mom had lived a good one. "She was an amazing mom." Ron pulled out his phone and opened the gallery. "That's the grand opening of The Pearl Street Kitchen - Eric, me and Mom."

Alan's eyes almost bugged out. "Your mother was Chienne Turbeaux from Pink Punx?"

Ron's bugged out in turn. "You know about Pink Punx?"

What ensued could only be described as a fanboy moment. Alan had greatly admired the violin-playing punk Chienne Turbeaux, and actually played the violin himself. Ronald spilled his guts about how she raised him and Eric. The places gone, and things done always as a family - and how Mom had never taken a millimeter of shit from anyone about her kids. They'd lived all over Europe and North America, moving almost at will until Eric was of age for secondary school.

"I'm so sorry, Ronald. I had no idea she had passed."

"Everyone talks about 'feminist punk pioneer' - you're the first one who wanted to hear what an awesome mom Janet Moore was." And she had been an awesome mom. "She kept us out of the scene, saying she owned her art and her music, but not her kids."

"That's a rare thing for any parent, Ronald. Your mother was a visionary and a pioneer in many ways, but that's possibly the best one."

Ronald cemented Alan in his good books. "Anything you want, you call. Okay? That's the best I've got and Eric would say the same." Ronald laughed. "Or grunt it from the kitchen."

Alan laughed. "He's very erudite and articulate on paper. Tell him I'm working on the rebuttal and some more feedback. See you Monday!"

The morning was busy, and the orders for Friday goodies came in thick and fast. Eric was going to need a head start on the sandwich trays. It was only as he was restocking the Totally Nuts displays during the late morning lull that he noticed the credit card dropped between the counter and the cooler. He teased it out with a straw and sighed.

Alan G Humphries.

Well, he'd keep it behind the counter and try to figure out a way to let Alan know his debit card was here. If nothing else, he'd hand it over on Monday.

Rox Sharp called ahead to order items to go and apprise Ron that she'd be delivering Eric around two in the afternoon, and assuring him that Eric was just fine. The lucky so-and-so. And Eric's Stride Of Pride was chauffeured by Ms. Sharp in a completely fucking cherry 66 Caddy convertible.

And Eric in a red and black Sharps tank top strode in the shop door looking indecently relaxed.

"You could just carry around a light-up sign that says 'I GOT LAID!'" He handed Eric the bags filled with Ms. Sharp's haul. "Call Eyewitness news… put it up on Instagram… post it on a Tumblr…"

"Subtlety, Ronnie. Let the dish speak for itself."

Eric carried the bags out to the curb, and Ms. Sharp kissed him until the cars behind her began honking, and shouts of 'Get a room!' began to fly. The he came no shit strutting back in the door and then goddamn well sashayed into the kitchen with a cocky grin.

"What happened to subtlety, Eric?" Ron could not help laughing as he followed - it had been years since he'd seen this side of his brother.

"Rox doesn't do subtle." Eric juggled a couple of 8-inch omelette pans.

"Hm. That's right - she did you."

"Oh, yes. Ze certainly did." He caught the pans and gave Ron an expectant look.

…

Wait.

Pronouns.

Well, FUCK.

"Ze?" It wasn't necessarily a deal-breaker. Not with legs like that. Or that smile. Hair - that was good, too.

"Ze." Eric confirmed.

Ron stuck his hands in his pockets and contemplated the idea that instead of being straight, he was instead slightly bent.

"I didn't want to out zir and ze didn't want to disappoint you, Ronnie." Eric said it gently. "Zie messed up my gaydar like you wouldn't believe. Rox is-"

"Amazing. However she… ze… identifies. I'm having a bit of an identity crisis, though." Just a bit. A bit the size of the Flatiron building. It didn't make him gay… but he wasn't exactly straight… he could look at a guy and think 'Nice!' and not feel like taking it any further… and then there was the whole pegging thing… but girls… and Rox. "Wow."

"Talk to zir about it. Ze thinks you're adorable." And he said that with a straight face, too.

"Manly. I'd really prefer manly." Adorable? Kids were adorable - and he was not a kid. "I'm twenty-five even if I look underage."

"Ze said you were all wide-eyed and puppy-faced. I think it's just the face-weeds - it looks like you're trying to grow your first beard."

"You are such a dick. It's supposed to look cutting edge and artsy."

"Try scrofulous and mangy." Eric sniffed.

"Hey!" Ron crossed his arms.

"Or is it supposed to be a variety pack flavor saver?" Eric pointed at different spots. "Taco truck. Sally. The froyo place."

Ron batted his hands away. "You have a patch!"

"Yeah, but it's always trimmed. Ronnie, when you're hunting, you've got to look good." Eric actually buffed his nails on the Sharps shirt.

Ronald looked at his reflection in the bottom of one of the roasting pans. Meh. He'd had this look for a while, maybe Eric was right. "Like, I could get an old straight razor-"

"Fuck that. First you take a hot shower and use my Panasonic foil shaver, then do close-work spots with the rotary." Eric took Ron's chin and turned his head from side to side. "Get rid of the sideburns, and get your undercut cleaned up, too."

"Okay, Mom."

"Dick."

"Learned everything I know from you."

"You're a fucking amazing student, I'll tell you that much."

"Um. Are you and Rox…?" He didn't want to pry, but Ron needed to know just where he was stepping. "I mean are you guys exclusive, or FWB, or… other?"

And holy shit, Eric blushed and cleared his throat. "Um. Hard to explain. I am at the moment exclusive to zir, though ze at the moment may or may not be exclusive to me - and it's not my business to ask zir anything of the sort."

Ron nodded. "An arrangement. That's cool."

No poaching - that was a hard and fast rule. It was disappointing, but better was seeing Eric relaxed like this. It would bear watching, but in the meantime…

"I finally finished the label art." It was all colored in and print-ready. Ron picked up his copy and unrolled it. "What do you think?"

The long-legged redhead wore a yellow fireman's coat and helmet against a night-time skyline, with lacy red lingerie only hinted at and a spent hose at those red high-heeled feet. Long red hair blew in the wind, and Fire Engine Red sported a grin sultry enough to vaporize your Fruit-of-the-Looms.

Eric laughed and clapped his shoulder. "You'll have to ask Rox, but I think that zie's going to love it."

~

Friday was cold and wet, with another spring storm threatening to snow. This time, Alan consulted his ConEd bill and cranked up the heat. He'd been freezing, lately - padding around in thick sweats, sometimes in his Polartec pullovers and Fox Mills skiing socks.

This week he had become more aware of his weight dropping, and trying to account for it. He was eating though nausea at times but he was eating. For instance, this morning he was having a rosemary ham, asparagus, mushroom, and shallot omelette with a side of potatoes baked with brie and caramelized shallots. Eric was strutting his culinary stuff like a peacock giving a full display of fanned tail and it amused Alan greatly.

Further, the rebuttal was something Alan read in a rather cranky, gruff baritone. Alan was making a considered reply. Fennel was going to be a touchy subject. Not that Eric was not entitled to a good preen. Most chefs did the classics indifferently at best, preferring to turn out signature dishes that were at best reinventions of the wheel and at worst so precious and airy as to be unsatisfying. Eric's classic dishes were true to the source with minor embellishments and modern improvements, but-

"All right, you are undersalting and you're doing it deliberately. That ham doesn't have enough salt in the cure to stand alone and you know it." Alan scolded Mr. Hot Butch Honey the Pugnacious Peacock Chef in absentia. "I fully agree with your point about salt and sugar, but really I'm not asking for _fleur de sel_ or Himalayan pink. A little Morton's would do just fine."

Readying for chemotherapy required consideration. The weight loss was evident, and Alan dressed in his more fitted clothing under a cable-knit sweater - a pair of straight-leg jeans and a warm lined plaid shirt over his chemo shirt. It was obvious that he was thinner, but this shouldn't make him look scruffy. Since it was cold and rainy, a knit wool cap to hide thinning hair was allowable.

"Fisherman look. Gives me an excuse to wear boots." Alan almost expected his reflection to ask just who he thought he was fooling. "Week three. Handling it. Doing well."

The backpack he loaded up with a foot warmer, fleece slippers, his Kindle, a thermos of hot spiced cider, a bottle of Mean Greens, a box of mixed cookies, Totally Nuts Georgia Peach mix, and a pulled pork sandwich with spicy lime-and-chili mayo.

And his coffee.

Because Alan was genuinely not sure he'd make it to the curb without all that caffeine. Fatigue, even a few hours after waking was now something he had to account for. All the changes in his life had come like freeway traffic - slow, relentless, and in every lane. His briefcase was in the closet, his winter suits carefully packed away and his warm-weather ones not yet taken out. His shoes and belts sat in their chamois bags so that the leather wouldn't dry out or lose its shine. Shirts and ties rested in their drawers, unworn for weeks. Alan felt as if he were missing an essential part of himself simply by not being dressed in his accustomed manner.

But who could wear a suit when they were curled up on the bathroom floor, head pillowed on a towel and waiting for the worst to pass? You didn't wear a three-piece to chemotherapy or for passing out on your meds and sleeping for twelve hours.

At least his laundry service charges had gone down.

Carmine was already at the curb and giving Alan the once-over as he exited the lobby.

"I know." And he hated it.

"It happens, Alan. It's hard to keep your weight steady in treatment." Carmine opened the door to the stretch sedan. "Didi will tell you the same."

"I owe everything to Andrea and cookies." Speaking of which. "I picked up a 12-pack of Pearl Street Kitchen's sandwich cookies."

"Oh, man! I went in there earlier in the week for lunch and almost left with half the store." Carmine shut the door and went around to the driver's side, continuing. "The chef knows his stuff - he did a white lasagna with sole and scallops that was out of this world. Didi gave me some hell for the tiramisu cookies, though."

Alan pulled the box out and opened it. "Give her one next time."

Carmine laughed. "So that's why she was so sore at me! You gave her cookies and I didn't."

"Cookies solve everything." At least lemon cookies sandwiched around a thick layer of raspberry jam solved a lot for Alan.

Carmine picked two chocolate cookies around bitter orange marmalade cream. "Most things. Others require a week at Club Med without the kids."

"If four cookies are not breakfast, what are two sandwich cookies around more stuff?" Alan wondered.

"Something we'll never admit."

~

You wanted, more than anything, to cushion the worst of the bumps and make the landings soft when you could not stop the fall. When she'd told Alan that she would take care of him as much as he would allow, Andrea had meant it. The weigh-in was definitive; Alan had lost weight enough to cause concern. Worse, true to those with the MD instead of the RN, the doctors did not handle it as well as they could. Then there was the ongoing trouble with the Filgrastim to battle the neutropenia, plus Alan's concerns about drug-dependency.

And the hair issue.

And at the moment, Dr. Chowdree looked most concerned - and well he might. He was not a stupid man, or without compassion - but from time to time his empathy needed some work.

"So you thought it was a good idea to make my patient cry?" Even tones. Even voice. Even temper. "Because I'm going to need a full explanation of your clinical rationale."

"I was not aware that the team's assessment had affected him so deeply-"

"Doctor? Two words. Neither of those words are 'happy birthday.'" God, she wished she were taller. "You know he's a private person. He's not an easy patient. He has nobody on the outside to lean on. Next time why don't you just sucker punch him coming out of the elevator?"

The man winced, obviously chagrined. "I have been read your excellent notes on all of the patients-"

"Doctor? I see fifteen patients a day, for hours at a time while they receive infusion therapy. I talk with them, assess their condition, collate their results, and I hear everything you never have the time for." Andrea paused and looked over the incoming results. "Still not up to level on the ANC. You see them for fifteen minutes once a week."

"He's going to be disappointed and I understand that-"

"And after eight years as your RN, you should know better than to try to placate me. My degree and certifications took just as long as your MD to earn."

"I had no idea Mr. Humphries was that emotionally fragile." He looked over the results a little longer than needed and then ordered the drugs. "He seems very ordered and rational."

"Doctor? Imagine going through something like this completely alone." Sometimes you had to put something of yourself aside to be in oncology, and sometimes that part needed to be reattached by a good swift kick in the ass. "No family you'd trust. Doctors who you don't think are coming clean with you. No friends close enough to come and sit with you, or even pick you up after therapy. Nobody. Just you."

After a very long few minutes, Dr. Chowdree looked down at her - troubled. "Not even a caretaker?"

"You skimmed the notes." Andrea took the basket of medicines out of the lift and checked them against the doctor's orders and previous issues before putting them on her cart. "He has a cleaning service, a local restaurant, and a medical service driver."

Silence was so useful in driving a point home.

"I see."

That was generally the best one could expect. "He has one more full treatment after this before early intensification - and it's going to make the last four weeks look like a vacation in Bali."

"I will make sure that you are still his nurse - the continuity of care is especially important in this case."

And that was her apology. Take the wins where you could find them.

"And I need to talk to you about Veronica Landry." BRCA-1 breast and ovarian cancer turned metastatic, post-surgical, age 40, with two teenagers at home.

"I'm referring her for hospice care and counseling." He sighed. "Absent some of the more radical treatment for osseous metastases-"

That was a relief. "We talked about it last night. Her sister's going to take the children, and I referred her to some services to help with survivor benefits. She wanted to know if we can prop her up long enough for her to see the oldest graduate in June?"

"We will do our best. How are the children taking this?"

"Sad, but they don't want to see her suffering. And scared enough that both of them want to be tested for BRCA1."

"They're so young, but you're right. I'll arrange it with the mother and aunt."

Alan had put himself back together - or at least hammered the dents out and slapped a quickie paint job on. He would light up and return the least bit of warmth and affection, and Andrea dosed him up as much as she could.

There were four cookies awaiting her.

"They are not four cookies, they're two sandwich cookies."

Andrea bit her lip and tried not to laugh as she set up the infusion stand. "That is four cookies around two cookies worth of stuff. So six cookies."

"But they're oatmeal. Banana nut." Then the serious came back. "Can I kick the Filgrastim?"

"Almost." It hurt her heart to see his expression fall. "You're close. In just two weeks your levels have increased to 900, but there have to be two consecutive readings of better than 1,000. I'm sorry, but just one more week-"

"Almost is still a no."

"Alan. It's not your fault. Listen to me. It takes time - you can't make it do what you tell it to do, it has to get there by itself." One of the worst sights in the world had to be watching a grown man trying his hardest not to cry. "You're doing well, even if you don't feel like you are."

"I'm just so scared and-" It slipped out, and judging from how wide his eyes went it was unintentional.

"And when you're scared, all the bad stuff seems closer than all the good stuff." Even grown men needed hugs, and sometimes a shoulder to snuffle on, and sometimes that was the best medicine you could administer.

It wasn't hard to sit with him until the first flush of ativan and benadryl put him under. Andrea covered him with warm blankets, made sure his feet were warm, and did her rounds. Friday was always a crowded day as chemo patients liked to have a couple of rebound days. Te'Quan Williams - age 14 - was in maintenance and holding his remission for twenty months. His grandfather was always with him, and brought Andrea the loveliest flowers from his shop on 110th Street. Dr. Ang was back, out of remission, and had specifically asked for Andrea; he scolded her for the cookies in her pocket and said that dental work was not forever. Nancy Sherwood was having a bad time in late intensification. Her husband had left her, saying in a farewell text that when he said 'sickness and health' that he didn't think that this would happen.

In short, she was confessor, guidance counselor, grief-work therapist, nurse, walking Google, intercessor, and then she left here she was wife, friend, lover, mother, daughter, daughter-in-law, granddaughter, student, and Mommy-room inmate.

Over the course of the day, she looked in on Alan and true to form he woke up slightly dazed and very groggy. Andrea took her time discharging him, letting him drink some of the green juice and eat his sandwich. Carmine was waiting downstairs when Alan was ready to go, the rain was coming down in buckets.

And about fifteen minutes later, Andrea's phone buzzed - Alan.

"Hello. Everything all right?"

"Andrea? I must have chemo brain - could you look and see if I dropped my debit card somewhere in the room?"

"My signal is awful in there, let me go look and call you back."

~

Shit.

"No?" Carmine looked at him in the rearview.

"No. And I know I didn't take my wallet out in the car-"

Alan pulled up his bank account on his phone and looked at the last charge and then looked up Pearl Street Kitchen's number.

"Good evening, thanks for calling Pearl Street Kitchen."

Baritone. Not tenor.

Hot butch honey. Not Ronald.

"Um. Good evening. I… this is Alan Humphries, and I was wondering if I dropped my debit card there?" If there was an analogy for butterfingers that could be applied to lips, Alan just nailed it. He was such a dork. "I think that I used it there on Thursday."

The line was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, it's here. Ronnie found it yesterday afternoon. We didn't have a way to reach you."

"I can pick it up tomorrow, if that's all right."

"Um, yeah. That's fine." Hot butch honey said. "It's in the cash drawer."

"All right."

"Okay."

"Good. Thanks. I'll see you then."

"Right. Um. We open at ten on Saturdays. And I don't undersalt. Bye."

Click.

That DICK.

Redial.

~

"Smooth move, asshole. What was that - twinkbaiting?" Eric berated himself. "The fuck is the matter with you?"

The telephone rang.

Eric looked at it.

It rang again.

FUCK.

He picked it up.

"Pearl Street Kitchen."

It couldn't be-

"Yes, you do."

It was.

"I do not. I just don't rely on salt to carry a substandard presentation. Is your salt-shaking hand broken?"

"About the same as yours, I'd say."

And he was snippy, too.

"Lay off the crappy Chinese food and you'll be able to tell the difference."

"And did I really need the history of fennel?"

"Context." Eric grunted. "It's bouillabaisse!" He paused. "And thanks for the feedback."

A moment of silence as the twink reassessed. "You're welcome. I'll be in tomorrow for my card. Is Ronald well?"

Okay. Maybe as nice a guy as Ronnie claimed. "Ronnie's getting ready for tomorrow - a barber shop shave, a haircut and something decent to wear. I hope."

"Something without someone else's name on it?"

Eric snickered. "I hope. I mentioned that gas station and bowling alley shirts had gone mainstream."

"And the 70's raincoater glasses."

"I'm proud of him." Eric hadn't meant to say it, not to someone he barely knew. "He's a fucking awesome brother."

"He thinks the world of you, too. I'll pick up the card in the morning - and thanks."

"Yeah. It'll be here. Good night."

"Good night."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter, a dark night of the soul, transformation, shenanigans, a loss, and a strange way to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to my betas, commentators, readers, and everyone who lets me know what they think of the story. You are all utterly awesome.

Ron came back to an epic cooking jam. There was music blasting, all six burners on the stove going, four ovens with timers counting, bread just out of the stone-lined oven, assorted slow-cookers and roasters lined up like soldiers on the long steel prep table, and the fading scents of charcoal and applewood smoke. Eric needed to get laid a lot more often if this was the result. 

Sneaking upstairs with Eric in Full Metal Chef mode was easy, and Ron wanted to show some of the new swag and style. Grungy - gone. Sharp - arriving. And sharp enough to cut, baby.

The black-under-blond undercut mirrored the dark/light of Eric's fauxhawk, and his new black wayfarer glasses replaced the seveties aviators. All his skinnies, his belts, jackets, his Uggs, his shirt collection, and every pair of his vintage Frye boots were gone - dispersed judiciously among the coterie of used clothing boutiques that paid sweet cash. 

And with that cash, Ron made a run on a specialized tier of used clothing stores. 

Mad Men was mainstream. The fifties and sixties were over, and the seventies were fading into the eighties, making the nineties resurgence inevitable. He had a better idea, and had put it into play. He'd bought abandoned garments from dry-cleaners, old samples from multiple sources, returned clothing from discounters, and costumes from costumiers, stuff from thrift stores off the hipster maps. Hock-shops turned up accoutrements like cuff links, collar stays, and a vintage repousse gilt-over-silver pocket watch. There was a while-you-wait tailor in Chinatown, and some sharp trades there brought the price of altering his new wardrobe down considerably. 

Running his knuckles over his smooth jawline, Ron smiled. Eric was going to keel over. 

Everything was smooth and sharp from trousers and layered waistcoats to the tailored frock coat. The blacks and greys set off the white of the hidden-placket shirts, as well as the patterns and deep gem-colors in the under-waistcoats and on the reverse of French cuffs. It was twenty-first century Victorian down to the buttoning boots, and sharp as hell. 

Oh, he looked good. Ron turned and took a look at the rear view. Nice ass. "Yeah. I'd fuck me."

Wait. Was he gay for his own ass? Or if he was a girl, would he fuck him? Or a guy?

Wait, if I were a guy... no, I am a guy… but hypothetically… if I were another guy checking me out...

Confused. So confused.

Still, he had to show off to Eric. 

Making a last check in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door, he adjusted the fall of the watch chain against the jaquard of his waistcoat and the set of the scarlet square in the pocket of his frock coat. The short-crowned tophat gave him a rather raffish look, Ron thought. He could hear the music being dialed down in the kitchen, and the sound of Eric's voice, probably talking to someone on his headset. Perfect timing, he'd just go down the stairs and wait for Eric to notice. 

"Yeah, I put in the red pepper and eggplant soup, too," Eric said as Ron came down and posed on the landing, turning to acknowledge his presence and then stopping cold.

"Well, big bro? What do you think of this sharp shit right here?" Sweeping the frock coat open, Ron strutted into the kitchen as Eric stared with jaw hanging. "Smooth as silk, I tell you. Come on, butthead, say something."

Eric smiled then turned his head and gleefully shouted, "Rox! Lunch!"

No. Noooo. FUCK.

"Honestly, Eric. I'm right up front - there's no need to shout." High heels tap-tapped on the linoleum behind the shop counter. "Do you need an extra hand?"

An utterly inhuman noise worked its way up from Ron's chest, followed by a strangled falsetto, "-going to kill you."

The fucker blew him a kiss. "Come and check out this fine stuff, Rox."

And ze came into the kitchen, wearing something that looked as if it had walked out of a Bergdorf's window, swiveling on a stiletto-heel to follow Eric's gaze. Then ze looked over the rims of zir tortoise-shell sunglasses and made a thorough job of it. 

"My, my. A young gentleman with a new spin on the classics. How avant-garde."

Eric leaned back against the counter, folded his arms and looked content. Ron gave him a smile that he hoped screamed, 'YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.' Then he smiled at Rox - was that a corset under the jacket? - and said, "Good afternoon." 

And stopped cold, literally too tongue tied to continue. Rox blew his line of patter to bits.

Eric took pity - sometimes a good thing. "Ronnie, you've got to show Rox that artwork for your brew."

"Wh- Oh. Um. Wait a minute - I left it in my room." 

Now that the cat was out of the bag, there was no getting it back in. He just hoped that Rox wouldn't take offense. 

Ronald pelted back up the stairs, though the living room, down the hall to his bedroom and grabbed the print copy off his desk.

What if she… ze didn't like it? The finals were tomorrow!

Funny how the thing you were the most certain was awesome suddenly seemed full of flaws when it got down to the wire.

"Quit dithering!" came the bellow up the stairs. "It's great!"

Fuuuuuck.

Okay. Since he was already in the water, he might as well swim.

Ron came downstairs and handed the poster tube to Rox, then was snagged by the boutonniere and held still as ze opened and unrolled it. He broke a sweat as Rox pursed zir lips and examined the work - zir smirk breaking into a smile at the sight of the flattened fire hose at Fire Engine Red's feet. 

"You sweet, naughty dear." Truthfully, Ronald had never experienced having one cheek pinched while the other one was kissed. Man. If he thought he was confused before... "It's very flattering, Ronald. And ze is an excellent likeness."

"You… you could come with me and Eric to the Beer Bash. If you wanted. It would be fun." 

Smooth. Real smooth, you dork.

With a slightly dimmed smile, Rox fixed his hair and his tie. "Ronald, it's a lovely thought, but I am what I am - and people don't like their comfort zones pushed."

"You are who you are, or I wouldn't have asked," Ron said bluntly. You didn't have the kind of family and upbringing that he and Eric had, then step back and give bigots a pass. "You're Fire Engine Red."

"Rox? You'd blow their doors off." Eric nodded, "And fuck comfort zones. I'll even wear a Sharps shirt."

His brother was awesome - still an asshole, but awesome. Rox kissed them both, and then scolded them for making zir mascara run.

Rox, as crushy-hearts as Ron was for zir, did Good Things for Eric. And he'd wanted Eric to Find Someone who loved him, so even if it was an Arrangement instead of a Thing, Ron was just going to step back and let stuff happen.

They made plans. Saturday night at eight, they'd be with Ronnie at the South Street Brewery to support him at the finals. Rox was going to wear Valentino, and it cheered Ron immensely. It would be to be great to show up with the two people who were genuinely happy for him. It was too bad that Alan thought he couldn't come, but Ron would brace him again when he came to get his card in the morning.

Rox left with zir goodies to go back to the shop, Eric promising he'd be over not long after closing.

"Sorry, bro." Eric hung up his jacket and looked over the results of the cooking binge. "You were just so asking for it with that strut."

"I'm still planning revenge in some as yet unspecific way. I mean it's like you have a Ph.D. in Assholery sometimes." Ron punched Eric's arm. "But oh fuck did I ever give you the opening…"

"Yeah, it was just too good to resist with 'Look at this fine shit!' and all," Eric snickered. "Oh, your Wall Street Twink called. He figured out he'd left his card here and I told him it would be in the cash drawer tomorrow morning." 

Ron widened his eyes. "You spoke with him? Like, real words?" 

"I said he called, didn't I?" Eric's ears went a touch pink. "So that implies I spoke to him, Beer Brat."

"Were any of the words more than one syllable and did any of them involve fennel? Hey! Put that pie down! Not on the new clothes!" 

~

Alan came home to a spotless apartment, packages from Amazon, and rapidly worsening nausea. While he'd been able to maintain in the car, by the time he reached his foyer he was pale, sweating, and shaking. His cleaning service had happily eaten the cookies Alan left out for them, brought in his clean laundry, and taken out the stuff to be washed. 

It was worse than last week, but not the unmitigated hell of the first week. 

Alan took another dose of his anti-nausea medicines, changed into sweats, and curled up in a blanket on two couch cushions placed on the bathroom floor. Friday evening and Saturday were the worst of his week.

Tuesday was pretty bad, too. Wednesday was tolerable and-

Oh. Oh, no. Fuck. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

His guts tightened into a hard little ball, and Alan cried out in sheer misery - glad only that there was nobody here to see this. He could get through this on his own. It was going to be fine.

At around four on Saturday morning, Alan stripped off his soaked sweats, crawled into the shower and turned it on. The worst had passed, and he felt wrung out both physically and mentally. How could he do this for another twenty-one weeks? No. Not this. Worse than this? How could he keep his weight up? How could he function enough to remain on his own and retain some modest handful of dignity and privacy? 

Alan leaned against the marble tiles and let the pulses of water hammer at his neck and shoulders. "I just want it to be over."

It startled him, because he couldn't specify what he actually wanted to be over - chemotherapy, the disease, or… him. He'd never felt so… useless, worthless. Never so alone… no, not alone. Isolated. 

Temporarily warm, Alan turned off the water and wrapped himself in a terrycloth robe. It was six hours until he could go claim his debit card from Ronald. He'd have some of the clam chowder, then get some sleep. God, it was good. He thought Mr. Hot Butch Honey was using half-and-half to get that kind of creamy finish. It was nice of Eric to make things not on the regular menu for him.

Alan rinsed the dish and put it in the dishwasher. "I'm just tired. I'll feel better after I sleep."

He'd learned the hard way to spare the bed and pajamas until after the worst passed, so the bed was clean and soft for him, the flannel pyjamas fresh and dry. Once he got in, it was as if he was sinking into the softness and into sleep. He fumbled off his glasses and set them on the nightstand, and just before he fell asleep, Alan thought he saw a pigeon on the windowsill looking in at him. 

~

Eric slept in the red satin of zir bed, well and truly tapped out at just a quarter after midnight. What a lovely display he made sprawled on his belly with that perfect rump just asking for a wake-up call. The dog collar around his neck was a plain black nylon - sweaty leather chafed - and Eric slept the sleep reserved for those who gave their all. Rox relished the top-high, indulging in a glass of vintage champagne as ze watched him sleep.

Eric was a service bottom - in the kitchen, serving dinner, scrubbing zir back in the tub, or on the bed. Sensation play was a big yes to bondage, cock and ball games, ass play, hot wax, suspension, and five licks with Rox's belt. Head games fed into sensation play; chastity play was lovely, and washing him down in the shower before putting collar and cage on him apparently scratched all the right kink spots. As a top Eric was powerful, tactile, would not come until you had your goodie, and he spanked hard enough to make zir lip wobble. Rox stretched, spine loose and arse warmed. 

Granted, he was a mortal and ze a god, but he was still as randy and happy-cocked as Grell's Eric had been. 

Now to undo as much of the mess Buckland had left as possible. Alan was out there somewhere, the red thread of She Who Spins still connecting them, and ze was not going to hand him a dog's dinner of trauma and neuroses. Especially with Eric so afraid of the disease he carried that he'd have an panic attack when he was about to come - even when there was no chance of fluid exchange.

It was tempting to… keep him. Ze could. Ze had his trust, and a hard-won thing it was with being three years in the forging. How simple it would be to evoke that devotion and love that could take root so easily. And how hard to watch this mortal Eric age or sicken and die; his life ending, all their lives ending, leaving Rox with three souls to hold next to zir heart.

Ah, melancholia. What was ze thinking, getting involved with mortals - much less trying to fix one so broken? Who, exactly, was ze trying to fix, trying to save and redeem? Tipping the glass back, Rox drank the rest of the champagne and considered opening another bottle. Mortal intoxicants lacked the punch of Reaper-brewed, but tasted nice nonetheless. Now, Rox mused, if ze really wanted an adventure, entering the Reaper realm to steal a bottle of Skulle & Bownes Centennial whiskey would be a bloody scene- 

Flapflapflapflap.

Speaking of bloody scenes. 

"I'm thinking of taking up falconry, William. Some archery, perhaps." Rox shut the bedroom door and turned to face him with zir teeth going to points. "Possibly skeet shooting, too. And if you crap on my carpet, I'll feed you to a cat."

Will shifted form and looked at the closed door, making no comment.

"If I'd only known you were a voyeur, sweet old soul, I'd have been happy to play along." Oh, yes, zir edge was still sharp. "Me fucking Eric, or Eric fucking me - tell me, William, which do you like better?"

"I must ask what it is you intend, Grell. You're meddling with mortals." Will lifted an eyebrow. "That never turns out well."

"You should talk, using Mnemosyne and Lethe on a mortal. Forbidden by the Code, and punishable by exile." As Will knew well. "They're mortal now, but they should never have been. One of us should have found their souls and returned them to be reborn as Reapers - that didn't happen and so here they are." 

"There was no way to foresee-"

"They died. All three of them. On your watch, though it seems to have troubled you little." When it cost her everything - including William, when ze counted that as a loss. "Now, after better than a third of my life lived without you, what the hell do you want?"

Will was silent, then swallowed. "To fix it. If I can."

So. That's what 'gobsmacked' felt like. Hm. 

"You. You have the nerve. You absolute fucking brass-bound bastard." No yelling. Don't wake Eric. Don't summon your weapons. "Who do you think you are? After a century? Out. Get out. Or find out just how much Reapers' steel there is on the black market. OUT."

The last word came on an exhalation of pure rage. 

William, showing that he still had an instinct for self-preservation somewhere under that immaculate suit, went into the ether so fast that there was a popping sound as from a large balloon. 

Rox crossed zir arms. Clenched zir jaw. Sniffed deep and hard. Blinked until zir eyes stopped watering. Ze would sunder William's heart for the pain he'd given zirs. Checking on Eric ze found that the darling was undisturbed and still deeply asleep. Ze crawled in with him, bare skin sliding on the satin until ze was next to him. Eric, just like former Eric, immediately curled his warm mortal body around zir. 

"Mf Rox? Y'r freezing." Eric woke up enough to wrap them both in the quilts. 

Bloody hell, ze'd forgotten to breathe again. "I'm fine, pretty man. Just had a bit of a distraction pop up that needed binning." He felt lovely against her and smelled delicious with a whiff of rutty musk under the scent of zir rose-and-ginger soap. "All taken care of."

Sleep or play? The way Eric nuzzled the back of zir neck, it could go either way. Rox wriggled back against him, rousing as his hand caressed zir thigh. Even with his prick in a silicone cage, Eric was game and eager. 

"I have a lovely way to warm up, Eric." Play it was, then. "It's called 'fuck Eric silly.'"

Eric nibbled zir earlobe and tugged on one of the gauges with his teeth. "I like that one."

Rox turned in his arms and rolled Eric onto his back. "Do you now?" Ze reached down and gave a wicked caress. Ze hoped Will got a burning eyeful.

~

Saturday mornings were slow, and traffic light. Ron kept an eye out for Alan while handling the shop, worried when noon came and went with no sign of him. He went so far as to look at the caller ID on the phone and write down A. Humphries' number just in case. They closed at four and were to leave at seven-thirty for the Beer Bust finals.

"Has he come in yet?" Eric called from Rox's. "And how are we getting there - going in the Snot Rocket?"

"It's a pearled mint-green, butthead. God, sometimes you're just... nine, or something." Ron picked a Cubano sandwich for himself. "I'm thinking of getting it another paint job, though. You know, something less mainstream."

"Oh, man. Not again. That poor car's been through more colors than Sherwin Williams has paint chips." Ron could hear the eyeroll. "How's business so far?"

"Super light. I think I might shut it down after Alan picks up his card." A drink - one with no caffeine. He was jittery enough. "I want to be there at eight on the dot."

"Nervous?" 

"Yeah. Scared. I mean, what if I did all this and I don't win anything? Not the distribution deal, or the equipment, or even a free dinner?" Ron's guts actually quaked at the thought. "So many people I thought were my friends have just been such shits about this-"

"Ronnie? If they were shits about it, then they were never your friends," Eric said flatly. "Your friends would be straight out happy for you, they'd have your back. That's what friends do."

"But what if everything I've learned is for nothing? If I don't win-"

"If you don't win, you're still a brewer. If you don't win… fuck. Okay, I applied for the grocery-beer off-license to go with the microbrewery permit." Eric sighed. "So Knoxhouse Brews LLC can sell beer to The Pearl Street Kitchen and Grocery LLC for sale to the general public."

Ron's jaw unhinged. "You're still a butthead, but I love you." Even if he didn't win, Eric had his back. "And you're one hell of a friend, too."

"Yeah, yeah. See you in a while. Rox is throwing me out while ze gets ready for the big night. Call that number if Humphries doesn't show up in the next thirty minutes. Maybe we can drop it off or something."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Hey, where did you put the extra Bubblehead sodas?" Ron looked for the cherry-vanilla cream - not there. 

"There should be some in the reach-in."

"No, just a dozen of that blue shit that tastes like floor cleaner. They're taking it back, right?"

"Yeah, do me a favor and put that in a milk crate at the back door, they're supposed to pick it up on Monday." Eric hummed for a moment. "There's a mixed case in the small walk-in in the kitchen. Don't know if your favorite's there."

"Thanks, man."

"Welcome. Rox calls, gotta go."

"Have fun."

"Oh, yeah. Not even a question. See ya."

Ron smiled as he hung up. He might have a crush on Rox, but Eric… it was like watching a bare-bones sketch become fleshed out and colored in. Ron looked around the store, then went down the hall and into the walk-in. There was no cherry-vanilla cream soda, but there was a chocolate-cherry. Good enough. 

The shop door opened and closed with a jingle of bells. "Be there in a second!"

"It's all right, Ronald. It's just me." 

Alan's voice, but Alan did not sound… right. Ronald came out of the back and stopped in his tracks, staring. Alan. clad in a hoodie and knit cap, held himself up with his bicycle smiled wanly. "That bad?"

"Yeah. Sorry, but Alan-" You look like death. How did you even say that to someone?

"I'm okay. It looks worse than it is right now." He leaned the bike against the wainscotting and came to the counter. "I'm just a little rocky after my treatment."

"Look, I'm going to close early. Let me give you a ride back home." Ringing up a no-sale on the register, Ron fished out the card and handed it over. "I've got a station wagon and can fit your bike in the back."

"I'm fine," Alan insisted, pulling his wallet out and slipping the card inside. "It's just that after my treatment-"

A hank of brown hair came loose from under the knit cap and floated down to land on the counter. He and Alan both watched it fall. Alan did not look up, standing there as if frozen with his wallet in his hand. A drop of water splashed next to the hair, and then another drop fell next to it and Alan's shoulders shook. 

"Alan." Ron reached out and took hold of Alan's shoulder as more drops spattered silently on the counter. Nobody should cry like that. "Alan."

Nothing. Ron went around the counter and to the front of the store, flipped the sign to 'Closed,' turned off the neon, then pulled the shades. He locked up, and when he turned back, Alan had not moved. Poor bastard. Oh, the poor guy. Cancer. Not an ulcer, not a stomach bug, not 'gastro-intestinal' anything. Cancer.

Ron put an arm around Alan's shoulder. "Come on. Come in the back." And without really waiting for an answer, he herded Alan behind the counter and down the hallway.

"Sorry. Sorry. Oh, fuck. Ronald-"

"It's all right. It's okay." This was going to be a category five bad-brain-day event. "Come on."

"I just- my hair- fucking stupid-" And the sob that followed was somehow even worse than the silent tears had been. 

Recliner. Brownie. Eric had made a fresh batch that was in their fridge, waiting to be cut and wrapped. It was easier to ask forgiveness than to obtain permission and even easier to pretend that Eric didn't grow marijuana in his bedroom closet, but this was a… a… humanitarian emergency! That. Exactly. Ron fairly herded Alan into one of the big brown recliners.

"Wait here. Okay. Give me a second."

Alan just buried his face in his hands and nodded through wracking sobs. 

Fuck. 

Ron shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then ran down the hall to their kitchen. Fridge. Brownies. Cut a palm-sized slab of inch-thick brownie with two edges. Plate. Milk. Wait. Kleenex. Downstairs to where Alan was visibly trying to pull himself together. 

"Man. I'm sorry, Alan. But it's cool - okay? Here." Alan took the Kleenex first. "I know, you're a private kind of guy and oh my god I am such an asshole for trying to set you up with my brother-"

Alan blew his nose. "Leukemia. I started chemotherapy at Sloan-Kettering three weeks ago. Ronald. I'm so sorry. but oh my god i'm losing my mind-"

Fresh tears welled and spilled, and this time Alan just… crumpled. There was no other way to describe it. 

"It's okay. Eat the brownie. You'll feel better - I promise." He'd seen it work on Eric's worst bad-brain days. "Eric makes them special."

The somewhat incoherent reply was that brownies couldn't fix this. He couldn't do this. It wasn't working. He was losing… something. 

"No. Shh. No. Come on, just a bite and a little milk and it'll feel better." And this time it was hysterics - wordless weeping that was terrifying to watch because you knew you were seeing a soul in agony. "Trust me - okay? It will help. That's right, come on wash it back with this. Yeah, it's good. Come on, a little more."

It took some coaxing, but half of the brownie went down and a second milk was needed. Alan calmed slowly, cradling the box of Kleenex. "I'm-"

"Look, don't be sorry. Man, that's as serious as it gets." 

"It was just… that was just the last thing, you know?" Alan took another bite of brownie. "I'm not at my best on Saturdays."

"It's okay. It's cool. Don't worry about it."

"This brownie's very good." Alan took another bite. "It's your brother's special recipe?"

"Yeah, a personal reserve." 

"Chocolate is a kind of antidepressant, I'm told." Alan blinked slowly and took another bite. "It's very tasty, but I can't place the difference. Nice and chocolatey, but not gooey."

"Yeah." Ron was suddenly very conscious of having given Alan a rather hefty dose. "It's okay. Relax. Take a deep breath." 

Another bite, and Alan blinked when Ron reclined his chair. "Why do you have recliners in a kitchen?"

"Eric spends hours cooking, and when he's tired he just kicks back. Sometimes he even naps down here, listening for timers to go off."

Alan reclined. "It's nice."

"Look, just stay here and have the rest of that brownie. I have to close up… no, just rest, okay?" Alan showed signs of getting up, apologizing for his meltdown. "Just hang out. I'll come back and we'll talk about getting you home."

"Tonight's your big night, you should-"

"It's not a problem." Be firm. Be confident. "You relax and I'll be right back." 

Alan reluctantly sat back, nodding.

Holy shit. It worked.

He did have to close up - cash out the register, get a deposit bag ready, roll down the gate and make sure the Bilco was firmly locked. The unsold items that were about to expire went upstairs to their personal fridge, and Ron marked them down as a discounted sale, moving funds from the cookie jar into the day's cash receipts. As he went upstairs with a dozen sandwiches, a few cups of soup, and a mushroom-barley turkey-thigh dinner that someone hadn't picked up, Ron saw that Alan lay in the recliner, curled on his left side and fast asleep. 

Ron stopped, carefully removed Alan's glasses, and set them on the table next to the empty brownie plate. 

~

Eric did bath-boy duty before being shooed off around three.

"But I want to see you put your bike gear on," Rox insisted, pushing his armored jacket and chaps at him. "It's such a post-apocalyptic techno-dystopian look."

So he did, then the bike gear came mostly off again. Shenanigans ensued with Rox as a Bad Cop, followed by assorted naughtiness with handcuffs and nightstick in the stairwell. By the time Eric finally got on his Ducati, just starting up the engine gave him a goofy smile in his helmet. Yeah. Rox was fucking merciless and Eric was fucking grateful. 

He'd go home and get ready for the big night. Rox banned him from wearing a Sharps shirt or anything red, so maybe he ought to get out his black suit. It make him look - in Ronnie's words - like a better class of hitman. The traffic in Lower Manhattan was Saturday light, and in a very short time he was easing the black-and-blue bike into the parking spot next to the Snot Rocket.

And walked in to find Ron sitting on his prep table, brow furrowed. "Hey, bro. 'Sup?"

Ronnie pointed into the alcove, so Eric turned to look - and stopped in his tracks. 

What? 

Mr. Snippy Undersalt VanTwinkbait III was out like a light in one of his recliners. 

There was also a plate with some very telltale crumbs. 

Eric frowned and gestured at the alcove. Just what the fuck is this? Then pointed at the plate with the brownie crumbs. And that better not be what I think it is. Then he slapped his forehead. What were you thinking? 

Ronnie grabbed the front of his jacket and towed him to the front, shutting the door between kitchen and shop. He cued the security camera footage and hit play.

"Say nothing. Just watch." 

He opened his mouth to give Ronnie a piece of his mind, and then the security camera footage made Eric snap his jaw shut. Nobody in good shape had to hold himself up on a bicycle in the first place. It hardly looked like the same guy, really. 

The hair. And Eric really didn't want to watch. It was an offense to the guy's dignity to see him break down like that, though Eric knew from his own experience that it felt more like a meltdown. 

The news just kept getting worse and worse, hitting you until the person you thought you were was chipped away. "It's cancer, Ronnie?" 

"Leukemia. He's been in treatment for three weeks."

Eric knew what those drugs did. Bradley Duncan had used small doses of cytotoxins to simulate some of the symptoms of AIDS. He rubbed his forehead. "Ronnie, go get cleaned up and dressed. Rox is going to be here soon and you don't want to be late."

"Wh-" 

"It's your big night, you're going to beat those other guys like their mamas don't know them, and you're going to go with someone who's happy for you." Eric got him by the shoulders and turned him around. "I'll stay with this guy until he wakes up." 

Ronnie stuck his hands in his pockets and looked woeful. "How long will he sleep?"

"Depends. How big was the brownie?" Though Eric knew from experience that sometimes it didn't take much. It depended how tired and wired you were in the first place. 

"About the size of my palm." Holding up his hand Ronnie marked it out. "And milk."

"Wow. He's out for a while. Those were made with Purple Afghani Kush butter. It's a serious indica strain - the nighty-night stuff." Whooboy. This was going to take some explaining. "It couchlocks me for a full eight. I can only imagine how it hit him - he's a little guy. Good thing you didn't give him anything with a sativa strain or he'd be flying around the room like a toy airplane."

"Fuck. I am so sorry-" 

"No, Ronnie. You likely did him a favor - I can say that from having been in a similar place." Eric smiled tightly, opening the door to the kitchen. "Go on. Get your shit together. I'll explain things."

"You're sure?" 

"Go upstairs, eat something - not a brownie - then clean up, shave, and dress. I'll talk to Rox." 

Ronnie went upstairs and Eric took out his phone, shutting the door again as he called Rox. 

"I'm leaving in a few minutes-" ze answered. "Wait, what's wrong?"

"I didn't even say anything." 

"Sometimes not saying anything says more than saying anything."

"Wh-? Okay. News first - and this is going to sound bizarre, but one of Ronnie's friends-" Eric explained the whole thing. "So this guy Alan is passed out in one of my recliners and considering he's a little twerp, he's not waking up before the wee small hours."

"Well. Gobsmacked twice in twenty-four hours. Goodness me." Rox sounded utterly flat-footed. "Alan, you say?"

"Yeah. And Rox, it's so fucking important for Ronnie to have someone there with him who really gives a- I mean who's happy for him." Eric rested his forehead on the plate glass window, looking out at the street. "His so-called friends have just been jerks about it."

"Of course, I'll go with him if he wants me to."

"Rox, he has the biggest crush on you." 

"He's a puppy, Eric, and I'll be delighted to escort him." 

"Wearing red?"

"Valentino from head to toe."

"Rox. It's a brewery," Eric groaned. "You're going Michelin five-star when this hipster pose-off would have to class up to be allowed into Hooters."

"MEOW," Rox laughed. "Who says that butch boys can't be catty?"

"I am not catty."

"A tomcat, and I do like to make you purr and claw-" 

Eric could hear zir putting on zir coat, and imagined her getting dressed. "No fair giving me another boner. I couldn't come one more time."

"Behave. Now, what's Ronnie wearing? And which perfume for me?"

"The sandalwoody one with the spice notes. Ronnie's going with this whole neo-Victorian look - why? Do you want me to police the wardrobe?"

"No, I can do that when I get there." The sound of car keys and the freight elevator. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

Eric checked the roll-down gate, locked up the rest of the way, and hesitated for a second before firmly turning off the store lights. "Yeah. I'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on him and cook something that takes a lot of prep work."

Mr. VanTwinkbait was still out like a light, curled up in the recliner. Eric pulled one of the thick throws from the arm and covered him up. "See you when you get here, I'm going to go change."

An engine started. "Where's Ronnie?"

"He's in the shower, and I'm not letting him out of the bathroom until he shaves." Eric went up the stairs. "He's new to it, and needs supervision. Just park in the back and come on up."

"I'm on the way."

Eric hung up, and rummaged the fridge - picking a gazpacho and a linguica roll for his own dinner, then bolting both. In his room, he checked on his plants, stripped, and took out fresh chef's whites, a tank top, and his Dansko clogs. Then he took a very hedonistic stretch. Goddamn, Rox rode it like she stole it and it felt better than Eric had remembered. 

Dressed, he tied on a bandana, then sneaked into Ronnie's room to slip a c-note into his wallet. The kid ought to have some cash for dinner and drinks. 

In their kitchen, he cut up and labeled the two different brownies so Ronnie wouldn't get them mixed up, then looked over his wall of cookbooks. What to make…

He had a First Edition Mastering the Art of French Cooking. There were the Robert Carrier Cookery Cards - vintage 1966, and his first 'real' recipes. The Marcella Hazan classic Italian cookbooks were great any time, but not what he was in the mood for either making or eating. When you absolutely needed a recipe that worked, you couldn't do better than the Cooks' Illustrated collection. The Smithsonian Folklife book was good, but still not… hm. 

The red potato and kale colcannon with garlic. A very simple roasted chicken with classic pan gravy. A soothing tomato and basil soup with a grating of asiago. Then ricotta-honey cakes in a not-too-sweet red berry sauce. While he was at it, he'd get some stocks done and start some new breads. There was a bunch of stuff he wanted to use up before he did the ordering and marketing Sunday and Monday, too. 

A buzzing from the bathroom made Eric smile. No more face-weeds! He was a little quieter than usual going down the stairs, though he would bet that Sleeping Twinkie wouldn't stir if the A train went clattering through. In the basement walk-ins, he loaded up the prep cart with fodder. There was nothing he loved more than to get in the kitchen and just jam.

Well. Sex. But it was a neck-and-neck tie.

He sent a stuffed prep cart up in the dumbwaiter, and then went up to the kitchen. Rox was standing next to the prep table, resplendent in red-and-black, zir hair in a cascade of curls, and zir expression solemn as ze looked at Humphries. 

"Hey," Eric greeted zir and Rox glanced at him.

"It hardly seems fair, Eric. He's so young." Rox slid an arm around his waist. "It just isn't right, and though I see it all the time-"

"It isn't fair, and it isn't right," Eric slid an arm around zir in return. "It's a horrible thing to say, but shit happens and keeps on happening."

"I just wish I could make it happen to those who've done something to merit shit happening."

"Yeah, but that would make you God, and who would want the job?" Eric tugged a curl. "Come on, before Ronnie tries to get dressed by himself."

They went upstairs and found themselves too late, but Rox walked right into Ronnie's room and picked his outfit. "Too much damask, Pup. Plain cuffs. Where are your cufflinks? No red ties. No blue ones, either. This one. Have you ever heard of Trinity knot? You have now. Come here. Hold still."

Rox was not only a force of nature, but apparently of menswear. Ronnie came out of his bedroom looking his age for the first time since he was in high school. Rox had put him in a dark charcoal grey wool three-piece accented with touches of light purple in tie and pocket square, with bloodstone cufflinks and tie. 

"Hot damn, little bro." Eric slow-clapped. "You're going to be peeling them off you."

Ronnie straightened up, put on his hat and offered his arm to Rox. The Beer Brat could charm when he tried. 

"Text me when you win. I'm going to cook and wait for Sleeping Twinkie to wake up. Wait." Eric took out his phone and activated the camera. "Right. Defeat your enemies!"

And he had to admit that Rox handled the sight of the 1974 Snot Rocket-green landwhale with grace, however Ronnie cast a covetous eye at the 1928 Packard Roadster.

"You guys are already making an entrance-" 

And off they went into the night.

They were going to have a blast together. Eric turned and went back into the kitchen where Humphries was still out cold. He'd really wanted to go and cheer Ronnie on, but you couldn't begrudge someone a trainwreck. Not once you'd been there yourself. 

He pulled the cart out of the dumbwaiter and started his prepwork for dinner.

~

Alan became slowly aware of waking, and the first thought was that he was warm. There was softness under him, softness on top of him, and it was wonderfully warm. Cradled in softness and warm to the bones in a way that made his toes and fingers knead at the thick duvet in primitive delight. It was blissfully good to be warm. 

Other things gradually seeped in, such as the lack of pain. Alan marvelled at the absence, that he could have become so inured to hurt that the lack of it was remarkable. The nausea, too, was gone. There was no tightness in the guts, the feeling of being slightly seasick and off-balance. In short, he felt good and even at at peace.

And then he remembered what happened and where he was and what...?

What was in that brownie in the first place? It bore the same resemblance to the 'magic brownies' he'd eaten in college that tap water had to Ketel One. He must have frightened the hell out of poor Ronald. But they were 'Eric's special brownies' - and what did Mr. Hot Butch Honey need with serious cannabis?

And then Alan dozed off again. 

It was nice to feel good when you woke up. Despite the humiliation he knew he ought to feel, that he had felt, at the moment all he could feel was warm and safe and good. Slowly Alan opened his eyes, finding himself still in the recliner and tucked into a warm duvet. It was dark in the alcove, and he had to feel for his glasses - then looked around in astonishment. How Alan had slept through all that was beyond him. Massive pots steamed on the stove, and all along the steel prep table doughs rose in stoneware bowls. Task after task on the whiteboard was marked with a big red DONE. And Alan's mouth began to water as his nose picked up the scent of roast chicken and something garlicky. Something berry-scented hovered to one side, and he was aware that someone else was here. A timer beeped and Eric strode across the kitchen to one of the ovens, crouching to remove a pan of something giving off the scent of honey. 

"Mhm, that's the ticket…" He stood and froze - staring wide-eyed at Alan who was staring at him. "Hello." 

"Hello." Alan reminded his lungs to work, please. Oh, he had it right when he speculated that neither of them were good at meeting new people. If Eric were a tomcat, his tail would be bushed out as wide as his head. 

Eric set the pan - filled with little golden cakes - on the prep table, then seemed not to know what to do with his hands. "You've been asleep for a while."

Alan nodded. "I… it was… a bad day."

This was accepted with a nod. "So. Um. Can you eat?"

And that was the last thing Alan expected to hear. "Yes, I can eat… thanks."

Eric seemed to need breathing reminders as well. "Okay."

"Okay."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter - William does not operate in a vacuum, as much as he sometimes wishes that were the case. Someone has to keep him grounded. Eric and Alan have a lot to chew on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With adoration to everyone who tells me, in whatever way, what they think of the story.

It had gone as well as one might expect, Will thought, and perhaps even slightly better. Grell had not tried to kill him, unless one counted the verbal barbs as the Death of One Thousand Cuts. In his office, with the door shut while the staff changed shifts, Will allowed himself to order and evaluate the facts on a purely emotional basis.

He had misread, and disastrously so, Grell's state of mind following the events of a century back. Possibly his own shock at the deaths of both Slingby and Humphries, and his own involvement in the debacle, had caused Grell to become utterly unhinged. Had it not been for the demon…

Well. No. Will could not entirely place the blame there.

The motivations of his younger self had been perhaps tainted by youthful passions, as well as a desire to rid himself of a highly problematic reaper. Grell's involvement in the Ripper murders was too fresh to have upper management tolerate another rogue field agent. Moreover Grell had never allied with an effete occultist to incept a wholesale massacre. Though in terms of body count, Slingby's toll was a paltry thing next to the works of the demon known as Sebastian Michaelis and the Ancient known as Pytheas. Sometimes done separately, at times in partnership, the pair left a bloodied trail through history on scales as grand as war and plague, or as petty as smothering infants in their swaddling.

It was the idea that Grell had loved Slingby that was what burned now. Not a fling, as Grell was prone to during their frequent partings, but a meeting of hearts. At the time he'd berated Grell that he gave him (her… whatever… just Grell) a trainee, not a plaything. Grell had responded saucily, and at the time Will simply dismissed it out of hand as more of Grell's theatrical personality.

Humphries dying of the Thorns… only he hadn't, had he? Slingby's scythe ended his life and freed his soul before the parasite could anesthetize and consume it. Slingby was killed by the demon - who had been ordered to kill and not to feed. Both souls, lacking a Reaper to collect and return them to the Origin, had simply… wandered off. Neither he, nor Grell, nor Ronald had arrived in time to gather them up.

And none of this was resolving the problem at hand, or all the other problems that problem spawned.

"Director Spears?" London Dispatch Manager Midford sounded tetchy as she knocked at his inner office door. "Director? If you've finished kicking yourself-"

William rubbed the permanently sore spot over his right eyebrow. "Come in, Cordelia."

When his second-in-command was tetchy, William's life became difficult. If being Supervisor, Manager, and now Director had been an expansion of rank, it came along with with the herding of ever more cats.

And Cordelia came in, giving him a look over the tops of her pink spectacles. "Done kicking yourself?"

"I am not kicking myself." William composed himself behind his desk.

"Well, you should be." His sweets dish was flagrantly burgled of the wrapped toffees. "You're the most organized, detail-oriented, intelligent, bone-headed, arsebackwards idiot I've never met."

"Insubordinate."

"But generally correct."

"On certain things." The problem was that Cordelia - as she prefered to be called - was rather insightful about matters of the heart as Reapers in general (and he in particular)were not. "I am a mortis, not a mortal."

"You went to New York, again. Visited Grell, again. Possibly contacted one or more of the reincarnates. Then had a big fluffy snit because Grell has a lover." As she said this, Cordelia helped herself to his whisky. "And this makes you a hypocrite."

"Trust you to get to the point - and give it." William huffed. "It is beside the point-"

"Isn't."

"-that a rogue and exile-"

"-coincidentally your former lover-

"-should conduct themselves with respect to mortals-"

"-and the emotionally constipated-

"-again beside the point-"

"-not to mention a green-eyed jealous little beastie-"

"-I am not, Cordelia, and as I was saying-"

"-and a stubborn one-"

"At some point this evening I should like to finish a sentence!" Will exploded, the flat of his hand connecting with the desk.

"You just did. Happy now?"

"No." Will crossed his arms on his chest.

"Grell has changed, William, and not only from the passage of time She was sentenced to exile, a life without any others of her kind - no companionship, no protection, no contact. Could anyone expect her to be grateful and forgiving?"

"I had no idea that Grell could become more disordered than previously." He had left it alone. Grell had touchy pride, and maybe - no, not maybe - he should have spoken more forcibly on Grell's behalf. "It would seem that I was in error when I thought it best to let it lie."

"Meaning you had no idea how to approach the situation and flailed."

What was it with him and the sharp-tongued? "I did not flail, Cordelia."

"Fled."

"And I am not 'emotionally constipated' - this coming from a being who persisted in speaking of 'limbs' and 'bosoms' well into her fourth decade despite marriage to Phantomhive, intercourse, conception, and parturition-"

"No changing the subject - which is not me, but you."

"And toffee and whisky is an execrable combination." It was. One or the other, but Threads bind him, not both!

"William, you read Rachel her bedtime stories from the Codex."

Oh, not this again. "Reading your daughter her bedtime stories from accurately recorded and sourced Akashic Records was intellectually sound since her mother became a Reaper-"

"Not hearing from you must have hurt Grell terribly, William."

Could she not go in a linear direction? Here to there and this to that. It was a brilliant strategy, but there were times that Will wanted to hammer his head on the desk.

"I thought Grell would come back. Grell always came back." Will rubbed at the sore spot, trying to urge the overstimulated muscle to unknot. "And when that didn't happen, I couldn't find him. Her. Whatever Grell is now."

"Wounds fester, left untreated." Cordelia nudged his untouched glass of whisky a little closer. "It's paining again, isn't it?"

This time Will simply rested his forehead in one hand and picked up the glass with the other, sipping at the Skulle & Bownes. "Cordelia-"

How did one ask a former junior, current executive officer, occasional inamorata, and steadfast friend to grant you the anodyne of her company and her bed?

Without sounding like an idiot.

Or, worse, a lech.

"Tch. Will." Setting her glass on the desk, she came around to his left side. "I've been saying for years that you need to let the medics look at it." Cordelia shooed his hand away and began to rub. "Hush."

It was annoying that when she rubbed, it stopped hurting. "I didn't say anything," he protested mildly.

"And I said hush."

William decided that he didn't understand any of it. "I told Grell that I wanted to fix it."

"You're very fortunate to have made it back alive," Cordelia scolded him, fingers combing through his hair. "There are times, my old fellow, when things cannot be fixed, but must be mended."

Will simply leaned his head on her belly. Cordelia was always warm, since her heart beat and lungs worked from the habits of her mortal life. For the life of him William could not remember if he took Cordelia to bed or she took him to bed, only that she was warm and sweet. Being freed from the mortal consequences of disease and pregnancy allowed her passion to bloom.

Other things he had left unattended brought themselves to his attention now. "I do not think I understand grief, as mortals feel it. I, too, deeply miss Rachel's presence. I have been remiss if I did not make that clear."

Reapers did not procreate, a mercy granted to those who must archive the Akashic Record and take each soul to the Origin to be spun out again. Reapers had no kin aside from each other - no parent, no child. Though Rachel had lived more than a century, mortal flesh gave way, and Cordelia had attended the Passage of her offspring herself.

"If you thought me to be… unaffected by her Passage or your grief-"

"William. Hush." Her fingers carded through his hair and he wrapped an arm around her hips, sitting in silence Cordelia rubbed the pain right out of his head.

When she stopped rubbing, Cordelia stayed in his arms and stroked his hair. While she bore him a tender affection and friendship along with her puzzling passion, William was unsure that he had earned such. As remiss as he might be in the appropriate placement of emotions and their application, perhaps Cordelia was a better friend to him than he to her.

"Come, dear fellow. Get your coat and we'll be off. Mustn't give the juniors ideas about overtime."

~

There was chicken and gravy on top of mashed potatoes and kale, and Sleeping Twinkie turned into Eating Twinkie - no doubt with an assist from the brownies. Eric was bemused, both with Humphries and with himself. Had he really become that much of a social hermit?

Apparently so, if his first question was, "Can you eat?"

This was only marginally mitigated by Humphries consuming a pile of chicken and gravy and so forth. Eric dug into his own portion with a solid appetite. Sometimes there was nothing more satisfying than the basics. He almost wanted to twit the guy about the salt, but after a meltdown like that Eric couldn't be much of an asshole.

"The gravy's really good." Humphries spoke softly, and Eric almost jumped out of his skin.

"Thanks. It's a reduction added to a brown roux."

He took another spoonful, tasting instead of just filling up. "Dripping? Not butter. It's richer than butter."

Eric eyed him. "Dripping. What are you, a food critic?"

"I'm a forensic accountant and risk consultant at a capital management firm." The spoon scraped the bowl. "I've been enjoying the food since I moved in down the block. I really thought that there were three or four chefs working out of one kitchen. You're really versatile."

"I like to cook. It's my version of music, or painting." And it was. Since he was a kid, Eric wanted to make good food. Mom had been a grilled-cheese and Campbell's soup kind of cook. Eight-year-old Eric got his hands on a cookbook for the kiddies and was out of the gate from then on. "I've been doing it since I was a kid."

"How did you get started?"

"Mom loved used bookstores." Some of his best memories came perfumed with the scents of old books. "Ronnie and I would each get ten bucks to spend on books of our own. One day I bought this book because it had brownies on the cover, and Mom sat down with me to pick out something to make."

"Ronald told me that she'd passed. My condolences." Then Humphries' eyes opened wide. "The Brew Bash! Oh, FUCK. You were supposed to go-"

Okay. This guy actually seemed nice and not like some Wall Street BSD.

"It's cool. A friend of ours went with him and-" Eric pulled out his phone and showed him the selfie of Ronnie and Rox. "He took second, but that's fifty grand in brewing equipment. With what he has going in the basement, that's about doubling his capacity to 500 barrels a year."

Eyebrows raised at the sight of Rox, but he only said, "But that's just brewing - what about bottling, storage, and distribution costs?"

"Wholesale bottles, used four-bottle filler, hand-crank labeling machine, and a printer. Huge basement. And he's going to be exclusive to Pearl Street for a while." Eric nodded at the empty bowl. "Want seconds on that?"

"Please." He looked embarrassed and a little self-conscious. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose it like that-"

"It's okay. I understand it."

Mortality punching you repeatedly in the face - yeah. Something to lose it over. Humphries gave him a somewhat skeptical look, but was smart enough not to pick a fight with a cook in his kitchen. Well, Eric was just in what Ronnie would call 'That Kind of Mood.'

Setting the bowls on the table, Eric shrugged down one shoulder of his jacket and pulled aside the strap of the tank top, showing the biohazard trefoil, then shrugged back into his jacket. "Believe me, I did."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I had no idea." Humphries stared and Eric waited for the questions, the revulsion, even a freak-out at eating food prepared by a person with HIV. "You're waiting for me to lose it, aren't you?"

"Yeah. A lot of people do, even other fags."

"Well, a lot of people are ignorant, bigoted assholes - including other fags." Pointedly looked at the empty bowl, he asked, "And what do you use to get the texture on the red potatoes when you mash them?"

Eric tamped down the smile that wanted to come. "Steam. You have to steam them until they fall apart on the fork, then mash with garlic and a little olive oil. The butter doesn't go in until the kale's drained and evenly beaten in."

He picked up both bowls and refilled them, adding a drench of gravy. Humphries reached eagerly for his bowl, and looked blissful when he put a spoonful into his mouth. "It's not just the after-effects of the brownie. About twenty-four hours after chemotherapy, all I can do is eat and sleep."

"How do you feel now? Ronnie gave you one hell of a dose." It was an opening, and the guy didn't seem to be upset. "That was also some pretty heavy stuff. I use it for my PTSD - I'm not symptomatic."

That made for some wide eyes. "Wow. Iran? Afghanistan?"

Eric laughed without humor. "No. My ex. I'm just a little bundle of fucking sunshine, huh?"

"I can see why it would be good for that. I'm very calm for someone who's just lost his mind. And his hair." He took another bite. "And there's no pain. I noticed that right away. No nausea at all. And I'm warm."

Goddamn, that was hard. The only way you knew you felt good was when you didn't feel like absolute shit? "They're not giving you anything for all that?"

"Well, vicodin and ativan. And it doesn't so much make the pain go away as it makes me not care that I'm miserable." He frowned. "How long was I asleep?"

"A little over eight hours."

And Twinkie burst out laughing. "That's great! That's amazing! I haven't done that in over a month."

As loath as Eric was to part with his medicinal brownies, he'd have to be a hard-hearted son of a bitch not to. "I can hook you up. Can't charge you for them, because that's a no-no, but I can make sure you're good."

"I can't ask you to do that. It's your medicine."

"I can always make more." Because he had a big closet, LED grow lights, and a commercial-grade vent with layers of charcoal filters. "It's cool."

"It's tempting. I haven't felt good, normal, in weeks. And I still have almost two years to go, if everything goes by the book."

"Okay, chemotherapy takes it right out of you. You've lost weight, you can't get good rest, you're anxious, you're nauseated and hurting. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"The stuff they're giving you doesn't make you feel good, it just knocks you out. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"So when you get something that not only lets you eat, knocks out the pain, and puts you in dreamland for a full eight, that's a good thing. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"But?" Eric prompted.

"I'm not sure, I was waiting for you to interrupt again."

"Okay! Happy to help. So, if you find something that works, you should go with it because you're not an abstract - you're sick, you need to eat and sleep. So be practical - what works? Cannabis. What doesn't work? Ativan and vicodin - both addictive. Ah-ah-ah - sit back and relax." He wagged his spoon at Huffy Humphries. "I'm interrupting, here. So, you need a pan of brownies and I do not under-salt though it is possible you're depleting a lot of minerals such as magnesium, calcium, potassium, and iodine provided by high quality unrefined salt and perceived as a salty taste-"

"You just had to go there, didn't you? And I do not eat crappy Chinese food-"

"- as proven by the fact that you've eaten two bowls of chicken and etceteras without commenting on the salt."

"It's the reduction."

"My ass, 'reduction.'"

"Mr. Slingby?" Humphries deadpanned, "Mental image not good. Please enunciate the comma."

Eric cracked up. "Oh, man!"

"I mean, I know that Ronald claimed you were a stickler about your seasoning." He was grinning and had a wild gleam in his eye. "But I had no idea about that particular personal touch."

It was weird and on some level Eric knew that it was Humphries being brownied to the the eyeballs and him being… himself, but it felt good. Like something missed for so long that you forgot how good it had been, and that you'd really missed it that much.

"Look, eat some dessert, have another brownie, and you can crash upstairs until Ronnie gets in. I'll run you and your bike home in Ronnie's car." Eric offered. "It's pouring rain again, and this time of night, on a weekend, in the Financial District you're going to wait forever for a cab."

He considered. "I'm not bumping anyone out of bed or getting in the way?"

"Nope. I'll fix you up a spot on the couch. It's warmer than it is down here after I put the kitchen to bed for the night."

Warm and comfortable were powerful persuaders, so after dishing out the ricotta cakes and berry coulis, that's just what Eric did. The Purple Passion Pit made a nice nest when it was miserable outside, so Eric just loaded it with extra bedding and an electric blanket. And this time, a smaller brownie would do.

It was nice, when Eric thought about it, to have an appreciative eater. Humphries might not be a chef, but knew his shit nonetheless.

Eric came back down to find empty bowls and a Sleeping Twinkie. It was hard work digesting all that food. Poor squirt must feel like a python with more ambition than room. "Wakey-wakes, sunshine. Let's get you upstairs."

They didn't even have to part Sleeping Twinkie from his comforter, and the second brownie was not needed. Humphries was asleep before his head met the pillow. Eric turned on the electric blanket, took off Humphries' glasses and put them out of harm's way, then spent a few minutes in the kitchen cutting and wrapping brownies. It was a little after three in the morning when he turned out the lights and pulled the covers up, thinking that he might not get to sleep.

He woke up, slightly confused, at around noon on Sunday. Ronnie was home, passed out in his room, and there was a note from Rox on the fridge that ze had a marvellous time and Eric's benjamin was back in his wallet.

> I took Ronnie for a treat at Jack's Oyster Bar. We smoked pipes and drank port - both of which made him queasy - and then I brought him home. Alan was sleeping soundly. I helped myself to two roast beef sandwiches and apple mini pies. Call me when you're up and about.
> 
> XXX,  
>  Rox


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter - new courses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry to be so late with this chapter, but have tried to make it worth the wait. With thanks to Kitty and Poppy for their endless patience and to my readers for theirs. And especially than all of you who let me know in whatever way, what you think of the story.

Alan woke to kitchen sounds. Eyes closed and warm in his guest-nest, he listened as someone rummaged the fridge and started coffee. Still no pain and no nausea, though the real test would be injecting the Filgrastim this evening. Part of his mind clung to the state of feeling good and wailed for those brownies. Though Alan did not want to deprive Eric of his medicine - that was some ex - he did not want to feel miserable long enough to become accustomed to it.

A peek out of the quilt-cocoon provided him with a view of his host in a pair of tartan-pattern flannel pyjama bottoms and a pair of… bear-paw slippers?

Nicely toned back, though. Complete with gravy train.

_Hush, Alan._

His host stumbled down the hall and into the bath - which Alan had found well enough at some point when it was still dark - and turned on the shower. Ronald came down the hall a few minutes later and peered blearily at the coffee pot.

"Aw, fuck. Hurry uuuup."

Alan made 'waking up noises' to let Ronald know he was here, then lifted his head out of the blankets as he adjusted his glasses. He must have scared Ronald horribly, breaking down like that.

"Um. Good morning, and congratulations."

"Hey, Alan! How're you doing?" Ronald, hung-over and steampunky ensemble nowhere in sight, took three mugs down from the hooks under the cabinet. "About the brownie…"

"Ronald, your brother explained things. It's fine, and I am honestly grateful." He still felt pretty good, too. "I haven't slept so much or so well in a month."

A wave of coffee scent rolled from the kitchen and Alan breathed deep.

"Good. You look better, too. I mean, that's a lot of sleep."

"And food," Alan added.

Ronald grinned. "He stuffed you, didn't he? That's Eric - if it holds still, feed it."

"Wiped out again after two bowls of chicken and gravy, plus ricotta cakes and coulis."

"Yeah, I ended up not liking oysters and port so much."

"But you took one hell of a prize - one I think might be better than first place."

"I was bummed for about five minutes until I figured that out." Coffee was forthcoming, and Ronald brought Alan a cup with cream. "I mean, I'll be exclusive to Pearl Street for a while, but I have my brand to build." The shower shut off and Ronald held up a finger to Alan, signaling for silence, then shouted, "I'm making breakfast!"

"Touch that stove and I break your fingers, Beer Brat!" came the bellow. "And we've got a guest, so keep your fucking voice down!"

"That's a poor thing to do to someone before coffee," Alan reproached, trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, but it's fun." Ronald raised his voice again. "And lend Alan some sweats!"

"Be reasonable. Your brother's clothing would fit me like a lawn bag."

"Quit jerking my chain before I have my coffee, you ass," Eric growled. "I can do things to your food that would fuck you up for life."

"He's under the impression that I can't feed or dress myself," Ronald confided.

"You do look more mature without the face foliage and with the the new glasses," Alan ventured. "Very Millennial Alternative Entrepreneur."

Ronald absolutely preened. "You think? I thought my look was getting too mainstream."

"The Trinity knot is very distinctive." Good Lord. It wasn't just Eric who was the peacock. Ronald was fanning his tail and having a strut, too.

"He buys a shirt without someone else's name on it and all of a sudden he's Joe Fashion Forward." Eric came grumping down the hall in a bathrobe that looked to be a concession to Alan's presence and made straight for the coffee maker. "You probably blew the competition away last night, though."

"It was Rox that made the scene, man. When I grow up, I want to give that few fucks." He laughed. "The guy from the Village Voice interviewed her first, then the Hot Sheet, and the Daily Smoke blog."

"I told Rox ze'd class up the joint too much." Eric poured an extravagant amount of cream into his coffee and drank deeply. "Oh, coffee. How I love you. Hey, Humphries, how're you feeling?"

"Really… good. Rested. Hungry again. Good. After sixteen hours plus of sleep, it's like getting my body back." And it was. How could he be this relaxed? It was amazing.

"You want to grab a shower, go ahead. I'll make pancakes and then run you and your bike back home in the…"

Ronald growled with unexpected ferocity. "Don't you dare."

"Moby Melon," Eric finished with Ronald glaring at him.

Alan hid his smile in a long sip of coffee. Brothers.

"And then I'm drafting you to bring back the new equipment with me, Eric."

"What, second place doesn't include delivery? What a fucking rip. Do we need a U-Haul?"

"Yeah, and it's in Brooklyn."

"Of course it is." Eric sighed.

"Alan, Eric's a total Manhattanite." Ronald proclaimed, "He just won't budge out of the borough. He's like Dracula with sunlight."

"Nuh-uh. Not getting in that one." Alan made the time-out sign. "I'm in no condition to duck flying pies."

"Keep it up, Ronnie. Keep messing with me. I'm the one who makes the pancakes."

"Eric makes beer pancakes, Alan." Then he turned to his brother. "I want blueberries."

"It's good to want things, butthead." Eric grumped and hooked a thumb at his brother, bringing Alan back into play. "This guy, Humphries. Big brass balls."

"Beer pancakes?" Alan steered for the neutral course, trying to stave off laughter. "How does that work?"

The two of them launched into a whipsaw explanation of the art and science of brewing and the exacting nature of pancake making, and Alan went along for the ride. Yes, he and Eric might be awful at new people, but they had their enthusiasms. Nothing would do but to make a batch of pancakes with pumpkin, spice, and a rich brown porter ale. And Eric was right. Most pumpkin pancakes were soggy mess, but the addition of beer lightened the dough, and made for spongy, airy cakes that sopped up butter and blackstrap molasses.

Alan, as guest, was given dibs on the bath next. Ronald was detailed to the dishes and Eric went downstairs to sign for and put away a delivery of eggs and dairy. A pair of sweats from Ronald replaced his slept-in clothing, and Alan bundled them into his backpack. The moment of truth was looking in the mirror, then running his fingers through what hair had not washed down the drain. It felt like a punch in the chest.

That was him.

This was real.

He came out of the bath to find Ronald with a rather smaller brownie on a plate and a glass of milk.

"Eric says." Ronald held them out.

"It's a bit hard to deal with." Alan pointed at his head and the patchy brown hair remaining before taking the brownie. "I don't think I'm handling it too well."

"It's not like stubbing your toe on the sofa, man."

The brownie went down with a swallow of milk. Extra chocolatey. No 'herby' taste at all, just a rich and buttery undertone. "Eric offered me a share of his brownies, but I don't want to take his medicine from him."

"If they did you that much good, I'd take him up on it, Alan." Ronald leaned in and confided, "That, and he can be an enormous pain in the ass."

"You tease him, Ronald." This time Alan did laugh - the image of competing peacocks was just too strong.

"It's my job!" Ronald asserted. "It keeps him on his toes."

"Beer Brat. Pie. With your name on it." Ronald jumped a foot in the air and then turned, coming down facing his brother. "You have a delivery. Cayuga Farms bundled your oats and barley with mine. Go check yours in."

Ronald looked around for imminent flying pies, and seeing none but perhaps not wishing to push his luck, scooted down the hallway.

Awkward was really awful. Hands. What did you do with them? Alan stuffed his in the pocket of the sweatshirt as Eric tried not to look at his patchy head. "Um. Chemotherapy's catching up with me, I guess. It looks awful."

"I have clippers. Can lend them to you." Eric took a good look - his eyes were such a piercing blue-green that the effect was unsettling. "It's not even that bad. You could even get away with kind of a low fade."

"Probably, but for how long? At least it wouldn't be as bad when it fell out, though." Alan ran his fingers through and came away with more hair. "I'll make an appointment with my barber tomorrow."

The thought was dispiriting, but it probably would feel better to be sheared short. At least then it wouldn't fall off in hanks. Perhaps not especially in front of Mr. Hot Butch Honey, but his pride simply could not get any lower than this.

Eric seemed to be having hands issues as well, stuffing them in the pockets of his jeans and giving Alan another of those unsettlingly keen looks. "I can give you a fade. I do my own 'hawk and clean up Ronnie's undercut when he's tight on cash."

And in a few minutes, Alan was sitting on a stool in the middle of the bathroom floor, towel around his neck, and the clippers humming along his scalp behind the combing of Eric's fingers. There was a quibble over a fade or just an overall buzz, and excellent care taken around his ears. And it might make him a big wuss, but Alan had closed his eyes when the clippers started.

Eric had very gentle hands for such a brusque presentation. Though since he was a chef, perhaps Alan should not be surprised. There was a hint of a citrusy aftershave and a warm, almost spiced scent that Alan could not put a name to.

The clippers clicked off. "Okay. You can look."

As if it was Eric's idea to have Alan close his eyes. But okay. Alan opened them and regarded his reflection in the mirror. It was a fade, but with the thinning of his hair at least he didn't look so pathetic. "Thank you."

"S'all right." Eric unplugged the clippers and removed the blade.

Objectively, it wasn't so bad. Alan ran a hand over the scant quarter-inch fuzz left him. "It's a good job. Looks good."

Eric shot him a look of disbelief, but said nothing.

"I need to jolly myself along sometimes, so just let me do it, okay?" Right now, Alan couldn't bear to have that taken away. It might have to go at some point, but not yet. "I'm trying, you know."

"Yeah. I know."

"Thanks."

"You can roll over here any time, you know," Eric blurted. "I'm shit for company, but Ronnie thinks the world of you."

Simple presentation, Alan reminded himself, but complex seasonings. "That means a lot, but I don't want to… you know… be a Debbie Downer."

"You're not bad company. You don't tell me how to cook."

Alan was not going to mention the fennel. "I promise to at least check in."

"And if you feel like shit, we can bring stuff to you."

Alan parsed for a hint of pity or condescension, and found only the blunt pragmatism of someone who isn't interested in theory, just results. "I'd appreciate that. But I really like coming down here. It feels less like I'm living in a fishbowl."

Eric nodded. "Just so you know."

Alan pulled his knit cap over his new fade. "All I need is a goatee and I'll look like a hipster."

"Facial hair is so mainstream." Eric smirked. "Next thing you know they're going to cultivate their ear hair."

"Fuck, but that's gross." Alan laughed out loud, carefully taking off the towel so that the hair didn't go everywhere. "But you know, someone's probably already thought of just that?"

"If they haven't, there has to be a way to plant the idea somehow. It would be a good laugh." The towel went in the hamper, hair and all, quite neatly. The clipper took a spray of Clippercide and Eric glanced at him. "Okay?"

"Yeah. As okay as I'm getting. I appreciate… everything. You and Ronald have been wonderfully kind over this." Andrea was kind, but he took care not to let her know how bad it could get in his head. "The brownies have really helped. More than I thought they would."

"Good. Because you've got a pan waiting downstairs."

Well. 'Eric says' indeed.

"I am not going to take your medicine away from you."

"I have a steady and reliable supply."

"I don't know how that works but I know that if you need it for yourself, I don't want you running short-"

"Which is not going to happen-"

"People do not normally talk when I am talking-"

"New things happen every day." Eric took his arm. "Come and see."

Somehow Alan managed to argue down the hall and into Eric's room - a rather monastic space with a daybed, desk, armoire, reading chair, bookshelves, and dresser. No carpet, bare walls, and a… capacious closet full of… stuff. Lights and little tubs filled with squat, bushy plants, a pump humming quietly from under the tables and a vent that sounded like a 747 taking off from LaGuardia.

And a rather… sweet funky smell.

"I'm not sure when I'm looking at, here. The stuff I had in undergrad was green and smelled like skunky corn chips."

"This is a hybrid - about 40 percent indica and 60 percent ruderalis. I wanted something lower in THC and higher in CBD." Alan must have looked blank at that, as Eric continued. "Cannabidiol - it's the 'second cannabinoid' behind delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol."

"THC being the stuff that gets you stoned?" Alan hazarded, hoping he didn't sound like a total idiot. "The munchies and all?"

"Yeah, it does that, but a lot of other things, too. I have some research." Eric took a binder out of a desk drawer and held it out. "Most of it's related to PTSD and HIV, but there's a lot of other stuff in there. There's even evidence that THC is cytotoxic to certain cancer cell lines."

Alan took it, looked in at the plants, and thought of all the time put into growing and learning about them. "If I'm not putting you out by taking your medicine and your research, then thank you. Yes, I will take the brownies."

They drove back to Alan's in Ronald's station wagon - and there was a discussion about Ronald's color aesthetics. Eric mentioned that he called the car the Snot Rocket, and Alan dubbed the sofa the Grape Grope Grotto. "Still, he did look well in his outfit."

"Rox dressed him. Alan, you should have seen it before. He looked like Scarlett O'Hara coming down the stairs in that dress made out of her drapes-" Eric peered at Alan's building and whistled. "Nice."

"Thanks. I bought my co-op here about the time that you and Ronald opened up." Eric eased Alan's bike out of the wagon, visibly impressed with the light titanium frame and the fat urban wheels. The brownie pan Alan strapped to the cargo deck. "I'll run Ronald's sweats back tomorrow when I come to pick up my supplies. Thanks for everything."

"Welcome. No problem." The awkward came back and Eric stuffed his hands in his pockets again. "See you Monday?"

Alan smiled. "See you Monday."

Upstairs he hung his bike on the stand and put the brownies in the refrigerator. The place felt quiet and empty, as if it hadn't missed him at all. As it he was not really home.

"Come on, asshole. Do not brain, do yoga."

Unzipping the hoodie, Alan went to change and then set up the Wii.

~

Eric drove Humphries home in the Snot Rocket, that fancy-ass titanium hardtail bike in the back of the station wagon. Alan held the pan of brownies on his lap like precious cargo. Eric watched him wheel the bike in the lobby door, waving awkwardly when the squirt looked back at him. So he was just making sure that he made it home.

And then Alan waved back.

Aside from being a snippy little thing from time to time, Eric was forming the idea that he was a really alright guy. It was hard to go through bad times alone, Eric knew that. Worse was the belief that there was nobody out there who would care.

He knew that one.

And he knew that sometimes kindness cut more deeply than cruelty, or care would bring you to tears when an outright sucker punch just left you numb.

"Nope. Need the brain today. Fuck off, Gary. You're rotting in a box somewhere, you shitbag." He pulled the Snot Rocket into its space and turned off the engine. "You lost big. I hope you died knowing it."

It hit him at the oddest times, and right out of nowhere. Gary infected him, then lied about it. And he got away with it for years. Eric wondered if that was something he'd ever get over - that his life and well-being had mattered so little to someone who claimed to the end to have loved him. Getting out of the car, he fought the urge to just take a brownie and curl up in his room until it was time to cook. Ronnie needed a hand and that trumped a Bad Brain day.

But Ronnie had radar for Bad Brain days.

"No. I really want to go. It's moving. It's out and doing shit. It's good, Ronnie." The little jerk sat there and gave him an expression like a worried puppy's. "We'll go get a U-Haul, take the Williamsburg Bridge, and then roll back here."

"Only if you're good with it. I know you don't like company much-"

"Nah. He's pretty cool. Snippy, but cool."

Ronnie lit up. "You like him."

"I'm not moving him in! I mean he's pretty cool - he slept most of the time he was here." His baby brother was an optimist - a real believer in love or reasonable facsimiles thereof. "He has cancer, and I have HIV. I think we feel sorry for each other."

"I felt like a real jerk, trying to set him up with you when I didn't know the whole thing."

"It's okay, Ronnie. You're a good kid, and you believe that love can fix everything - but it can't." He wanted to believe that himself, all evidence to the contrary - but who was the big brother here? "Come on, and this time we check for roaches before we start the truck."

Ronnie shuddered and nodded. The last rental featured Eric and Ronnie leaping out of the truck on the Van Wyck Expressway when the damned things started coming out of the AC vents.

The rental office was dead on a Sunday, and the trip out to Hipsterland uneventful save for Eric's reflexive need to roll his eyes. Hipsters crossed with slackers with a side of commission sales proved to be the combo that double-dutched on Eric's last nerve. It was apparent that the prize and cash had been awarded principally to drive an adjunct sale that would actually make the prize turn a profit. Ronnie, bless his open little heart and open little wallet, almost ended up getting jacked for his prize money plus a financing plan for a 'macro-micro' package at an interest rate that made Eric bellow in outrage.

They left with the gear - painstakingly checked by Eric to be as promised - and Ronald's cash intact.

"I can't take you anywhere, Eric."

"Good thing you did. You are such a pushover - that guy was bullshiting four pounds a minute!"

"I was totally playing along with him, ass." Ronald sulked and then cussed when Eric pinched his cheek.

"I can't help it, you're just so cute when you're twelve. Hey, no socking the driver! And you still have that two-k to play with." After a moment's consideration, Eric added, "Maybe we better go cash the check today. Just saying."

Ronnie sighed. "Yeah. You're probably right. That guy was a little too keen on getting me to spend it right there."

"Not your fault, Beer Brat. You're a good guy - good guys believe everyone's a good guy."

"What does that make you?"

"A very disillusioned and bitter former good guy."

"A good guy who looked out for a stranger, took care of him, and then shared his medicine with him."

"I said 'disillusioned good guy' not 'complete asshole,' you know. It was common decency." And if Eric was being honest, there was something about Humphries that… nope. He'd leave that alone. That would make him an asshole. "It has to suck, going through that alone."

"You going over to Rox's tonight?"

At some point he was really going to have to stop blushing. He was thirty-three, for fuck's sake. "Yeah."

Rox had honestly done more for him in a few weeks than years of therapy with therapists who were not a) gay, or b) kinky, or c) traumatized, or d) HIV positive. Granted, it was impossible not to feel good after being topped, put into service, and then fucked silly before the talky part. However, the downside was the cash outlay for more silicone Gates of Hell - he got hard at a stiff breeze lately and Rox liked to cut the device off with an Exacto knife.

"I'd give anything to know, but I don't want to know." Ronald sighed.

"I'll help you unload and get the stuff into the basement first."

The good thing about Sunday was that the narrow streets were empty, so parking and unloading the equipment into the basement vault was easy. Ronnie returned the truck while Eric went up to attend to the cake. Rox had been particular about this one - a Prinzregententorte - and a whirling son of a bitch it was to make. All it needed was a little decoration over the apricot jam and rolled fondant and it was ready to go.

Looking over his prep, Eric found that there was not much to do. The big stuff he'd finished last night in a perfect culinary orgy, so really today was just about the details. Cookies to bake, minicakes to frost and decorate, doughs to punch down and bake in the morning, and the Nescos to fill with oatmeal, polenta, and multigrain cereals. The eggs could be scrambled in the blender in the morning, and the frittata cups were ready for the oven, while the omelette discs could go in their packets.

Consulting the menus for the week, Eric made some revisions to Humphries' stuff. More nutrients, more flavor, something a little extra in the minerals department but not more salt. The beer pancakes went over well, so more of those. Stuffed French toast - that would be good. Frittata cups with roasted veg and pancetta. Smaller meals, to eat more often - and take into account the brownie effects.

More complex seasonings, like a symphony for the mouth in warming spices like turmeric, paprika, and coriander. Amuses bouches - the flirts of the culinary world. Comforting tastes, smells, and even textures needed to carry the appetite. And potatoes - the squirt had nearly eaten his weight in reds over the last week.

Soups didn't take much work to digest. Vichyssoise. Potato and roasted garlic soup. Mushroom and barley. Avgolemono.

Or some bouillabaisse.

He had plenty of fennel.

When Eric was finally packing up the goods for the next day, Ronnie came back from returning the truck with a pair of well-shod Mid-town lovelies in tow to 'help' him assemble the gear. He winked at Eric as he led the ladies down the basement stairs and closed the door after them.

That boy and his dick.

Then again, considering Ronnie's reaction to Eric's 'dick jockey credentials' comment, the ladies might be packing serious dongage. And Eric ought not to talk about anyone's relationship with their genitals, considering that he had not only conversations but outright arguments with his own. Eric simply shook his head and got out his pastry bags and tips, set the Painintheasstorte on a cake-board, and began to mix the piping fondant.

Cake decorating was kind of a meditative state for Eric, demanding both complete concentration and fine motor control. It had to look good and it had to taste as good as it looked. And since he knew that the cake was sin on a plate, Eric wanted to put it in something that begged to be licked off.

His phone chimed with a text message, and Eric blinked his way back to reality.The cake was covered in a piped lattice and subtle buttercream flower shapes - and yes, he wanted to lick it off.

He picked up the phone to a cascade of texts from Rox. The last one tartly commented that Rox understood that Eric's true mistress was food, but when he was able to tear himself from the wiles of the cake-?

He dialed.

"It's about time," Rox huffed.

"Now don't get catty. I was taking care of your cake." Eric transferred cake to cake box, and put it in the refrigerator. "And that was a bitch and a half to make, you tyrant."

Rox laughed, "You are such a service bottom, Pretty Man. If you're ready, I want to come pick you up."

That gave him a lovely twinge of heat. "I'll be ready in twenty."

"No, I want you fresh from your labors, darling. I have Things In Mind, you see," Ze said in a voice that made Eric genuinely weak in the knees. "I'm going to give you a lovely bath, to start."

"You know, I have had to beat off more times in the past week-" It was good and Rox knew every hot button as if ze'd put them there. "I'm going to have forearms like fucking Popeye because of you."

"Then I'll just have to make sure you can't pop for a week, won't I? I'll see you quickly, Pretty Man. Be waiting."

~

It was lovely to have such a willing playmate. Rox parked the Caddy between the Stutz Bearcat and the Maserati Bora. The good thing about living a long time was the amount of luxuries one could accumulate went up with each decade. Automobile carriages had fascinated zir since ze'd won an Olds Model R Runabout in 1904 - playing poker was so useful when establishing one's mortal-realm fortune.

Eric was quite impressed with this toy collection, too. The ground-level floor of Sharps displayed at least three models at all times. In terms of investments, real estate, cars, and other ephemera outperformed everything but gold - and Rox had a nice pile of both the wearable and negotiable sorts.

"Come along, pretty man. Time to serve me something delicious." Eric had been holding the cake steady through some vigorous liberties taken with his person. Rox unbuckled his seatbelt and nudged the cake box forward. "You locked it down again. Tsk."

"It won't shut up." Eric protested.

"Hm. Talky bits - this merits some time on the couch." The training was taking. He waited as ze walked around the car and opened the door to let him out. "What does the naughty thing say?"

Eric blushed. It was wonderful. Eric cultivated a gruff and standoffish exterior, affected boldfaced harlotry, but at times could be so very missish.

"Well, to start with, it blames you."

"Oh, goodie. I'm going to do so much to deserve it." It was time to start testing to find out where the actual limits and hot buttons were. Eric went for the deep bottom and did it hard. "I've never had anyone come so hard for my Bad Cop Top before."

How he'd managed to sit that motorcycle afterward was an intriguing question.

"Rox. You're going to make me drop the cake."

"Mind your step." In the freight elevator, ze pulled the gate shut and released the hand brake, setting the lever for zir private floor. "Now, about these talky bits." And without further ado, Rox unbuckled the belt, popped open the top button, and unzipped Eric's jeans, and put zir hand down his unders. "Don't drop the cake."

"Fuck the cake." Eric growled as ze gave him a fondle.

"Waste of cake, pretty Man. Never waste cake." Oh, yes. Lovely prick in there, and locked down in a silicone cage. "And you, pretty bits. What have you been telling Eric - hm? He needs much more fucking? He does, you know. That bottom was made for buggery."

Eric aggressively nuzzled for a kiss and the cake was going to go up for a Reap in a moment. Rox would be willingly had on the floor of the lift, but ze had put some effort into arrangements. That and ze wanted dinner.

"Cake in the kitchen, and then strip off." It took effort to keep zir tone crisp. Eric getting nuzzly and rammish was something zir body knew for a very good thing. "Leave your little cage on for now."

Eric handed zir the cake and obediently got naked from the glasses down, then folded his clothing. Yes, he was a little whiffy, but it was quite nice. Rox walked around Eric, giving him a good looking-over.

"I've always wanted a hot houseboy." Ze patted that superlative bottom and handed him the cake. "Kitchen, then go into the bedroom, put on the blindfold, and wait for me there."

It was just like the song said, you hated to see him go but you loved to watch him leave.

Rox's preparations for Eric's bath included soft cuffs, a half-sling to support his arms, and a modest spreader bar in PVC. There was shampoo, soap, a not-too-scrubby bath mitt, a straight razor, a little bottle of lube, and a lovely little prostate stimulator. So he was beating the bishop too often? Ze could fix that.

After putting up zir hair, ze checked and found him blindfolded though not very patient. It took work to get Eric to let go. A soft nylon collar around his neck and a lead snapped onto the d-ring made him flush and flex his shoulders as she led him to the shower. The sling supported his arms comfortably, and the spreader bar affixed just above the bend of the knee made such a pretty picture.

"I want full access, Pretty Man." Rox turned on the water and got in with him. "I know you like to trash-talk and tussle, but you go over so easy…"

"You know I like good pushing, Rox, and your titties are cute, too." Eric's smile was wolfish. "And you need to give me that dick and ride my ass like you stole it."

"Bossy butch boy, this is not your kitchen." Zie soaped up the bath mitt. "You and the titties - you have an oral fixation."

It was a given that the more lip Eric gave zir, the closer he was to being a very good boy - or a very bad boy. At the moment, he was trying to hold attitude against the luxuriant amounts of hot water and a thorough soaping with zir signature scent.

"I do not. They're cute - like bombe cakes," he protested.

"The only thing you love more than sex is food."

"I don't play favorites, Rox. I love food and sex equally - sometimes even at the same time."

"You are a rampant sensualist. A hedonistic ripailleur serving himself up shamelessly while indulging his own appetites." Zie could see him relaxing, the muscles loosening down his spine. There was always that core of tension in him, though it was less now than it had been when zie began inking him. "Goodness, I'm going to have such a feast. Tip your head back, please."

"It's a spa day." His voice was taking on the warm, resonating tone to match the relaxation in his body. "You're spoiling me."

"I intend to work you over, Pretty Man." Zie sank her fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp with zir fingertips. "You're stroppy."

"I'm horny."

"And naughty, beating off so much without telling me." Ze rinsed his hair with the hand-held showerhead, then put it back in the holder and picked up the straight razor. "And then you lock it down." With a flick of zir wrist, the razor snicked open. "It's been a while since I used a straight razor on any bits but my own-"

"Rox…" Eric's prick twitched as zie took him in hand.

"Shh." Ze laid the blade against his skin and the darling stopped breathing, his prick trying to swell against its binding. "Now hold still. You wouldn't want me to slip."

It had been more years than this Eric had been alive since ze had, but it did bear mentioning. Starting with the tip, Rox carefully plied the blade under the silicone bands and cut them one by one. Ze finished with Eric at full arousal and breathing as if he'd run here from Pearl Street.

"See? Not a nick." Ze set the razor on the ledge and stood, squeezing his arse and pulling him close for a little frot. "And you like that so much, you deviant. You're dripping for it."

"I'm in the shower, genius."

"You're also tied up, genius." Rox nuzzled him and nipped. "And I have a lovely little toy."

"...define 'little.'"

"You'll see in just a moment." Rox reached for her gloves and the lubricant, snapping the nitrile on for effect. "Yes, I do enjoy watching you take size, but this is just a bit more subtle."

It was lovely how easily Eric opened up for zir fingers, squeezing and angling for a nice hit on his prostate.

"Rox-" Eric wriggled and pushed back onto zir fingers.

"Hush, you greedy thing." Though ze did oblige him with a rub that made him… squeak? It was deep for a squeak, but it was a squeak. Rox laughed out loud and then did it again, reaching for the stimulator. "Your prick's going to need the rest, and if you can sit for the next week without a smile on your face - Ah, there we go."

The toy slid home and Eric looked skeptical.

Until he squeezed.

And then he grinned, his flush creeping from under the edge of the blindfold. "Oh."

"I'm so pleased you're enjoying it, because you're going to pop for me." Ze slapped his arse and chuckled at the moan. "Give me a lovely little show. I want to see those cheeks working."

"What the hell is this thing?" Eric's toes were literally curling. "It's oh goddamn Rox it's just what did you put in my ass?"

It was lovely to watch Eric get into it, his lovely bottom moving lewdly. Rox urged him on with kisses and touches everywhere but where he begged for it. Not a stroke not a tickle for his prick.

"Work that ass, Pretty Man. I want to see you make yourself come, you strumpet."

Oh, yes. This was too good not to indulge, and Rox gave zirself a languorous stroking. Eric's flexing took on an urgent rhythm, head tipping back, and his weight resting in the upper body sling.

"Rox you fucking hell you have an evil brain you need to bend me over and fuck me stroke me I fuck oh fuck can't come from goddamnit ahhhyeah and I don't know whatthefuckthistingisbut-"

For a man who couldn't ejaculate without friction, Eric was doing quite the champion's job of it Rox thought giddily, zir own shot spattering his belly. What a lovely and lewd picture he made. He finished, panting through his moans and holding on to the sling, their mess washing down the drain.

"Rox?"

"Yes?" Zie took off the sodden blindfold and smiled when he opened his eyes.

"You're not getting this thing back."

The cheek!

~

The brownies, as it turned out, were a match for the filgrastim and Alan was able to stay awake for a while. In addition to the blessed lack of pain, the level of anxiety and low-grade panic he'd come to think of as normal was dialed back hard. He was hungrier, and the stomach discomfort he'd expected did not reach the degree it usually did.

The downside was that since he was awake, so was his brain. Hal Foreman had couriered over his papers on Friday afternoon, but Alan had been too out of it to do anything but note the envelope. Reading them took determination.

It was odd that even ten years after being disowned, a small part of Alan hoped that perhaps someday his family would love him again. Looking over these documents, meant to shield his assets and home in a living trust to make sure that he and he alone guided his medical care, was the death of that hope. The final documents, detailing the dispersal of his property after his death, felt almost as if he admitted that this might not work. The medical, legal, and financial powers of attorney rested with Andrea, Mr. Foreman, and a top accounting firm experienced in wills, trusts, and estates. Alan signed all of them, putting a set in each envelope for each trustee and retaining one for himself.

Then he sat at the computer and wrote a short note to his brother and his father.

> Dad and Ted,
> 
> In light of your recent contact with me, I have taken legal advice and acted to preserve my assets and autonomy from any interference. It was a mistake to call, knowing that you continue to feel as you did ten years ago. I have made a life without you, and your responses to my illness simply verify that while you were wrong to throw me out and disown me, I was right in leaving and staying away. Do direct further correspondence or communications to my attorney, Harold Foreman of Foreman-Twickert, 425 West 44th St, NYC, NY. 10036
> 
> Do not attempt to contact me at all, or harass my employers. I want nothing further to do with you.
> 
> Alan
> 
> cc: Harold J Foreman  
>  cc: Alan G Humphries  
>  cc: Theodore P Humphries Sr.  
>  cc: Theodore P Humphries Jr.

Now, if only it were that easy.

He put his laptop aide and lay on the sofa, looking up at the patterns of his tin-tiled ceiling. No, the anxiety wasn't there, but just under that dried scab bubbled a lot of tears. Maybe this was part of the brownie effect? Alan picked up the binder and paged through, the annotated research looking for psychological sequelae noting that Eric referred in his notes to 'wired and tired' - a state of mind that when he began to relax turned him into 'a weepy emo mess' but was less depression than depressurization.

If it were not for the meticulous nature of Andrea, and now Eric Slingby, Alan reflected that he'd be a great deal further at sea than he was now. Google skills notwithstanding, the glut of information and sale pitches from even the most painstakingly constructed parameters did not begin to cover the practicum.

Alan sighed, rolled onto his stomach and tucked a cushion under his cheek.

His hair.

That should be the last thing he ought to worry about, but in the end it was not the hardest blow he'd taken. It had, however, been the one that broke him. He might be able to put on extra clothing to hide the weight loss but seeing that hank of hair, thinner than it should have been, landing on the counter had been like… being gutted. Not even being thrown out of his home had hurt as much as this, nor had surviving homelessness in an Idaho January been as hard. Through it all, he had faith in himself, in his mind and abilities - he had hope in the form of a scholarship and an acceptance letter.

Now?

He didn't know.

He'd already done his yoga, and yet he was still trying to brain.

"I'm the only one here and I still never shut up." He rolled onto his back again, then off the sofa entirely. "I'm asking Mr. Hot Butch Honey if he has a brownie to turn off the brain for a while."

His brain suggested masturbation.

There was a downside to not being opiated to the eyeballs.

And there was one thing Alan still had yet to do.

He ran his hand over his hair, feeling the shortness of it. It was surprisingly soft, almost like a cat's fur. There were thin, smoother spots that were just skin, and a scar from the time that he went tubing in rough water. Standing, Alan walked into his bedroom and turned on the lights, looking at himself in the mirror over his dresser.

Just how long had he been avoiding looking at himself?

Slowly he began to undress, putting the borrowed sweats in the washer along with his own clothing. Alan admitted that he was afraid to look, afraid to see. Because if he really looked…

"If I really look, I'll just have to deal with it. And I don't know how to do that."

He looked anyway.

And looked away.

Then looked again, steadying himself.

He still had some muscle to him, but his face was thinner - his cheekbones showed a little more. Ribs and collar bones showed more than he thought he remembered, and so did the flanges of his pelvis. Turning, Alan looked himself over from the sides, and from behind - he was visibly thinner. Cachexia? It was hard to tell fat loss from muscle loss just from appearance.

Wait.

Alan turned full frontal.

"I'm losing my pubes? You have got to be fucking kidding!"

Come on. This was nowhere to be found in the research! He still had to shave every morning, but how often did you check your pubes? Or your pits?

He looked at his reflection again, this time running a hand over his shorn head, tears coming to his eyes. This sucked. It really sucked.

The tears spilled over and Alan wrapped his arms around himself, backing up until he could sit on the bed. Depressurizing. Depressurizing. It was okay. It was just depressurizing. Alan lay down, curled on his side, and for the first time didn't try to jolly himself out of it. He pulled the covers up over himself, looking out the window at what appeared to be a gorgeous May evening, and was surprised by sleep as Trinity's bells began to ring.

When he opened his eyes again, Alan was confused. The sun was on the wrong side of the apartment.

No.

He'd slept almost twelve hours!

"Oh, shit!"

Alan shot out of bed and straight into the shower. He had a conference call at 7:00 with Mr. Conti and the executive officers at the firm, and he'd slept through his normal pickup time for Pearl Street! Yes, he could do the meeting unshowered, unshaven, and in his pajamas, but that just felt wrong! If he hadn't had his coffeemaker already preloaded…

Alan leaned out of the water and snagged his wet/dry electric razor, toothbrush, and toothpaste from the sink. This was going to have to be an omnibus shower.

Clean and dressed in what had to be his fastest time since undergrad, Alan buttoned his shirt at exactly 6:59 and poured himself a cup of coffee.

The conference phone rang at 7:00 on the dot. Alan put on his headset and answered.

"Good morning Mr. Conti."

"Good morning, Alan. How are you feeling?"

"Better." Alan answered, surprising himself with the truth of the statement. "I've had a change in medication, and even though it's been only a few days I'm feeling more… me."

"That's great to hear, Alan. How is treatment progressing, if you don't mind our asking?"

"I don't mind, but quantitative data is hard to come by. I'm told that I'm progressing as normal without an idea of what that actually means." He took the last of his oatmeal cookies and sat down on the sofa. "I'm full up on medicine being an art, a science, and a crapshoot. I understand that. What I could do with is a little less bullshit."

The laughter on the other end of the phone was unexpected.

"You are feeling better!" Mr. Shore called out. "We were really worried - still are - but you sound like Alan again."

"I've been getting some good rest and following good advice. I just actually woke up about half an hour ago." Opening his email, Alan allowed himself a small smile. There was no way that he was going to tell them about the meltdown and brownies. "Now, I've gone over the Trireme data and if the client is in the market for a paint job, it's a great one. The actual deal stinks. The company's reputation is not so much as a Mediterranean shipping company as a bunch of quasi smugglers operating out of an Athens front office and flying flags of convenience from Belize, Lebanon, Malta, and Panama."

The meeting settled in and Alan made his recommendations based on how much fuckery was concealed in the rosy scenarios - but not by the hard figures. Multinationals had ways to swap debt, conceal liabilities and exposures. Alan's job was to find the devil in the details, and make his recommendations accordingly.

"You're looking at a lot of liabilities - older and substandard ships, lack of trained crew, flags of convenience that will keep these ships out of regulated ports." That was not mentioning smuggling, theft, human trafficking, environmental violations… and that was just amongst the crew. "They're selling the front of store, but the back's a mess. Yes, they have a profitable small-ship cruise business, but that's not enough to muck out the rest of it."

The cookies were consumed during a PowerPoint presentation when he could mute his headset.

The last of the potato salad went during the debate between the company's agent and Mr. Conti.

And by 10:00, the agent's blathering reaching epic proportions, Alan's stomach was growling. He had peanut butter and jelly but no bread - so he ate it with a spoon.

When the meeting broke up, and Alan's new assignments and schedule hit his inbox, it was almost 11:00 and Alan could have eaten the couch by that point.

"Thank you, Alan. Have a good week and we'll talk with you again on Thursday."

"Thank you, gentlemen. I'll look forward to it. Good morning."

Alan disconnected and picked up his phone, Pearl Street's number programmed into his speed-dial.

"Good morning, and thank you for calling the Pearl Street Kitchen."

A tenor, not a baritone. Not that he was disappointed.

"Good morning, Ronald. It's Alan."

"Hey! I was getting worried. Do you need us to bring over your haul?"

Alan was already putting on a jacket. "No, I'm on my way there now. I'll bring your sweats back tomorrow - I put them in the wash last night, but crashed before starting the machine."

"Whenever. It's cool - Eric was putting on finishing touches anyhow. Hold on a second. That's eight-fifty, please. Come back soon."

"I'll be there shortly, it sounds as if you have a rush." Hunting for his shoes, Alan thought that he might get a pair of clogs like Eric's - and now that he thought about it, like Ronald's, too. "Thanks again."

"Not a problem, Alan. See you when you get here." And as he was hanging up Alan heard, "Hey, Eric! Alan's coming!"

_Hush, Alan._

Setting up the bike, Alan made a mount and dismount just to be sure that he could manage it, then set out. It was a glorious May morning, and a quick ride if one with more traffic than he was used to. By now he knew that he was allowed to wheel the bike in, but locked it outside instead - mostly to gather his composure as Eric was sitting on a stool behind the counter, drinking a cup of coffee.

"Good morningish, Alan." Ronald greeted him as he came in. "You look good today."

"Thank you, Ronald. Good morning, Eric. Did you get the equipment all right?" Alan looked in the cases and sighed. He needed more nutrition, not more pudding cups.

"Oh, man." Eric rolled his eyes. "Let me tell you about this scam-"

"Oh, no." Ronald almost harmonized. "I am not that much of a dweeb, you know-"

"He is that much of a noob, you know. Wide open heart and wide open wallet-"

"Butthead."

"Dork." Eric snorted. "Now they tried to jive him into not only spending the prize check, but financing this… what was it… micro-macro setup that was supposed to be the Second Coming-"

"Alan, I was completely not going for it. I was playing along-"

Alan found he didn't need to say a word, the pair of them were hilarious all on their own. Instead, he noted some tempting things not normally a part of the repertoire placed to catch the eye.

Almond-milk spiced chocolate pudding.

Brown rice and barley pudding with coconut milk.

Whole-grain garlic knots with infused olive oil for dipping.

Salt and vinegar pistachios.

Alan's mouth was watering by the time he made a pile of goodies on the counter, and his stomach was growling loudly enough that both Eric and Ronald gave him startled looks.

"Have you eaten today?" Eric demanded.

"I had a conference call early and only two cookies left, plus a cup of potato salad." Alan was not going to tell them about eating peanut butter and jelly right from the jar. "I'm a little peckish."

"Wait here." Eric drained his coffee and went into the back, the kitchen wafting the scent of something oniony and rich. "Soup's ready. How do you want your beef dips?"

"On the ciabatta! Alan, the onion soup is soooo good when you dip a roast beef sandwich in…"

"Did Eric do the roast beef?" Alan's stomach was desperate.

"He did." Ronald held up a hand as if swearing in court.

"Sold."

"Eric - two on ciabattas!"

"Okay, both of you come and get. I've got cupcakes in and have to keep an eye on them!" Hearing that bellowed in a baritone was possibly one of the most surreal experiences of Alan's life.

"Come on. You've been invited." Ronald lifted the gate between the storefront and the back.

"I'm coming!" Alan gathered his haul into a handbasket and stepped through, a smile blooming on his face. He'd been invited.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> In this chapter, Alan's feeling warmer and Rox cleans up a loose end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry to be so late! This chapter is brought to you by the government shutdown, a business trip, a workvalanche and bronchitis. I hope to have fifteen up on schedule!

Invited was wonderful, and included was better - even if Eric and Ronald mostly let Alan sit back as the pair of them alternately worked together, bickered, and did the peacocky strut and preen. Eric relaxed was funny as hell, but fading fast by midafternoon. Alan excused himself to bring his haul home and let the man sleep - which Eric did, curled up in the Grape Grope Grotto before Alan and Ronald were down the stairs.

Alan arrived home a little tired himself, and put away his haul. He found that Eric had made some change-ups, knowing about cancer and chemo. Smaller meals, dense with nutrients, the grains trending to oats and barley. Corn made an appearance in a creamy mushroom polenta, but not otherwise. Alan decided that stuffed whole-grain French toast made a good afternoon snack, finding that the rich pumpkin-and-spice ricotta filling was satisfying on its own - the maple syrup in the batter making for a bit of creme-brulee crunchiness.

The brownies were letting him wean himself away from the ativan as well as the opiates, and Alan prepared his evening dose along with the filgrastim. Tomorrow was his short day, and then Friday was the last treatment in phase one. Then he'd have a whole week with no chemotherapy, and hopefully no filgrastim. Maybe he could do something fun. Something normal. He could visit a museum, or go to a park.

He packed for Tuesday morning's short session - slippers, new Kindle loading with media and games, two Juicy Lucy's - a Mean Greens and Mango Mangler - plus a couple of Eric's new high-nutrition snacks. And a small brownie - Eric had done his research and marked the waxed paper according to dosage and type.

Should Alan inform his "team" about his decision to use marijuana in a therapeutic context? According to research, certain natural cannabinoids increased the uptake of chemotherapy drugs as well as having cytotoxic effects themselves. However, in New York, marijuana was still an offense punishable by fines (not a concern) and incarceration (a big one).

So, here was his dilemma - take drugs that had proven track records as addictive substances, with the side-effect of making him utterly stuporous? Or should he use something that worked so profoundly that he slept sixteen hours out of twenty-four, and was able to function afterward? Risk jail and possibly death from medical oversights? Or look up a good bail-bondsman and attorney with a track record in marijuana cases?

A call to Harold Foreman was returned post-haste and then a call with another attorney - Sandra Shapiro - resulted in a just-in-case retainer and a reference to a good bondsman.

"All I am able to do is to advise as to the contents of the law, Mr. Humphries. I can't advocate one way or the other as to your decision, nor do feelings have any impact on the law," Ms. Shapiro cautioned. "You're white, a professional, and wealthy - not of color, poor, and walking. In addition, you're a cancer patient and judges are political creatures. Throwing a guy on chemo into Riker's not only looks bad, but it's likely that he'd be dead pretty fast. Even the most law-and-order, by-the-book asshole on the bench would think twice."

"But if this were to happen, and I was arrested, could you and your preferred bondman get me out in time for my meds and chemotherapy?" Alan asked. "That's the first thing on my mind."

"I'd drive you to Sloan-Kettering myself."

"What's your retainer and will you take a debit card or should I have Mr. Foreman do a bank transfer from the trust?"

"I'll give Hal the details, Mr. Humphries. And if you have a little extra, it would further my pro bono work for people without your luck."

"I usually give to the Lambda Legal Defense fund and the Point Foundation," Alan said bluntly. "Is this for you as a practice or do you have an organization with a 501(c) status?"

"I've worked with Lambda before, they'll be able to vouch."

The minutiae of illness were complicated and not what one expected, Alan mused as he programmed two more numbers into his phone after hanging up with Ms. Shapiro. And while he did not mind a donation, or someone pointing out his luck and privilege, he was wary of a potential shakedown.

The evening brownie went down on the heels of a very nice herb-and-barley stuffed turkey thigh. The chocolate was accented with a ginger and a citrus note, and taken with a big glass of almond milk, was really a delicious and deeply satisfying dessert course. Someone had been doing research on calcium bioavailability, and apparently experimenting with nut and hemp milks. His haul was loaded with them, and Alan liked the vanilla-infused almond milk best.

Someone did research for him, which of the brothers was open to question. He was oddly hopeful that it was Eric.

Not that he was… crushy… or anything that juvenile.

He simply appreciated Eric's form.

In context with his generosity and compassion.

Both the brothers were warm and friendly - Eric initially reserved and Ronald notably not. They unblinkingly accepted Alan and the mass of complications that came with his cancer. They had been open-hearted, generous, good Samaritans when he was feeling rather like the poor soul left on the road to Jericho. It was easy to like them.

It made him feel very guilty over some of his thoughts about Eric, though. Even if Eric could be butch-flirty, Alan didn't actually take it for real flirting. How could he? Losing weight and hair, freaking out in Eric's cafe and then passing out in his recliner was not a good recipe for a good date or even a hookup that wasn't a pity fuck. And while Alan could handle a laundry list of ills, being pitied was not one of them.

Besides, Alan had an inkling that Eric was involved in something with Rox Sharp.

Something that involved ligature marks on the wrists.

Which made Alan speculate.

Though Alan had never used handcuffs - not when silk neckties were so strong and made such a statement.

_Hush, Alan._

"And while I'm at it, you hush, too." Alan spoke to the rise in his khakis. "We're not prime material right now. And quit with the dreams; I don't want to be a creeper."

The dreams were insistent and troublesome as much as they were enjoyable, aside from having to do the laundry afterward. It was frustrating to want from afar. If he'd been healthy, Alan was certain that he'd have rolled up on Eric the second Ronald pointed him out.

Some part of his brain laughed at him. Loudly. Then gave him the mental image of himself doing a Kermit the Frog flail.

"Shut up." His face hurt from the blush. And to his dick he said, "You, too."

_Make me, buddy. I'd like to see you do yoga with pointy pants._

Alan was going mental. He could hear his dick smirking. That left aside having a conversation with it.

"I'm going to shut you up." He unbuttoned, unzipped, and swore he'd throttle the pestiferous thing. "And I am not going to do laundry in the middle of the night tonight."

_Your brain wants some Tail of Hot Butch Honey, trussed up and oiled dowwwwn, baby, dowwwwn. Don't get mad at me when it's the brain's deal!_

Closing his hand on his dick sent a jolt of heat through him, and Alan's imagination returned again to Eric's toned back with gravy train. Nope. Alan wrestled back the brain and pointed it to the memory of Things Done In Aspen With A Vacationing Corporate Litigator. The brain lingered momentarily over positions in a Jacuzzi and pleasurable things that a stream of pressurized water could do. Then the dick staged a mutiny with the brain's help, delivering a montage of Eric butt-shots and ligature marks, leavened with unwarranted graphic speculation.

Alan, quit bullshitting yourself. You would be on that man so hard and deep that if anyone managed to pull you out, they'd be crowned the true king of England.

Spit and palm were a poor substitute, but when you wanted a Chateaubriand and the only thing open was Joe's Burger Joint, you took what you could get. And right now, Alan was so hard that he ached. A stroke into his hand, the muscles in his thighs, abdomen and ass tensed and flexed. The images and thoughts in his mind returned to Eric, no matter how Alan redirected.

Fuck, but he had it bad.

_Okay. Admit it. You want to fuck him. Admit it, then put it in a box and move on. You don't have to be a creeper._

"Yeah, I want to fuck him. He's the whole package, honestly."

 _In vino Veritas_ , his ass. If anyone ever wanted to hear absolute truth, then they needed to ask questions when someone was about to come. Alan slowed his hand, tugging his balls down in a "you are not the boss of me" gesture to his libido. Nope, if he was going to spank one out, it was going to feel as good and naughty as that fast-food burger tasted. Cockteasing someone else was fun, cockteasing yourself was an art form.

Alan shucked his clothing off and settled back into the sofa cushions, right hand and fingers gripping the shaft of his cock while he teased the head with his thumb. What he'd want to do… come on Eric's back. Imagine the heat of his body, the motion of his ass… was he loud? Alan liked loud. Or quiet - a semi-public place, or even an open window, something that called for self control even as your body flushed with passion. Holding back the noises you needed to make as much as you needed to come, as much as you needed to bring your lover off.

Alan's hand betrayed him with short, quick strokes, and he clutched the cushions with his left hand, bucking hard into his grip. His brain swamped with flickers of images, ideas, desires that made Alan break his silence with heated moans.

"Fuck fuck yeah I…"

The image of Eric from the back, wrists bound above that exceptional ass-

He saw stars, cried out wordlessly, spattered with his own shot as it arced onto his belly. The intensity of orgasm left him ringing like a struck bell, and completely dumbfounded.

Alan knew lust. He understood it and the flipside of lust that was infatuation. When he was in the frame of mind to hook up, then Grindr was like a delivery service for orgasms in all flavors, colors, and nationalities. He'd had affairs, and boyfriends, and flings. This felt different, and strange, and as wildly thrilling and frightening as the first time he'd kissed another boy - but at the same time, it called to him like home.

And for the life of him, Alan could not understand why. Eric called to something in him, and part of Alan was delusionally convinced that if he ended up in Eric's arms, he'd never leave and never want to.

But.

His treatment for leukemia was far from a sure cure, and that it couldn't be said if he'd even have five years of survival after completion. Or even that he wouldn't need a more extreme intervention like a bone marrow transplant or a stem cell treatment. Alan knew that he would never have a bucket-list last fling with anyone. Because even if he could give himself heart and soul, love and trust someone so much, he understood that his beloved would survive him. And someone he'd love so much deserved more of a future than a box in the ground.

~

Ze needed to clear zir head.

Fucking the daylights out of Eric, that happy little deviant, certainly helped. Letting Rox the Bad Cop out to play with Eric and been a lovely scene. Handcuffs were good for so much more than hands, and a nightstick made a very versatile toy. That boy came buckets first on his motorbike, later in the stairwell, and finally in a mock-up jail cell. The incorrigible tart then cooked dinner on command, served as a bath attendant, and slept until around eight in the morning - giving Rox a sound 'good morning' buggering before rising and making a manly breakfast of steak and eggs.

Fucked and fed put Rox in a more serene state of mind as ze prepared to visit one of her prisoners. There was one special moment ze'd been waiting for, and with a couriered delivery from zir associate in Bangkok, Rox could see an end to zir involvement with that being. Nobody liked to be made a fool of, and nobody could make a fool of one better than oneself. If Grell - as ze had been then - had not realized the full measure of perfidy she faced, it was a mistake of flaming youth with horrendous consequences.

While what ze did now could not alter the past, it soothed the wounds to know that at the very last, dear Sebastian had egregiously underestimated Grell Sutcliff. Ciel Vincent Edward Phantomhive's soul had been collected - stolen - from right under the demon's nose. And while the vast majority of it went on to the Origin, Grell kept a small part of it close to her heart.

Not for sentimental reasons, but tactical ones.

The contract was not completed. Since Malphas had been unable to consume his long-anticipated meal, he could not contract with another mortal, nor could he change form. Rox Sharp had all but tripped over him in 1932, as he scavenged like a wharf rat on whatever souls he could find in a waterfront heroin dealer's shooting gallery.

Stepping into the ether, Rox traveled from modern New York to the emptiest of ancient wastes in the Rub al Khali. Around zir rose walls of red stone, formed in ancient seas and now sinking beneath the sands. Ubar, the legendary city, had not been consumed by a sinkhole, but had originally been built into the canyons and crevasses below the dunes. The downfall of the proud Red City sprang from her own lifeblood. The plague came to Ubar in the silks and spices, spreading among the caravansary and city, replacing the savor of incense and perfume with the stench of dead and rotting meat.

It was, perhaps, a saving grace that a sandstorm wiped the road from the map and toppled landmarks before another caravan could come to carry death forward to the great cities of trade. Another two hundred years would pass before Europe felt the lash of bubonic plague. In time, even Reapers forgot the location of the city, the pertinent files lost as the Akashic collections were moved, retranslated, reformatted, rewritten. Precisely how Rox obtained the coordinates was a measure of how willing ze had become to take on even zir own kind. The owner of the knowledge had not given up the information easily.

Now the only beings moving in Ubar were the animals - small canny predators, and smaller, cannier prey.

And one other, though he could hardly be said to be moving or even going anywhere any time soon.

Rox pursed zir lips. Over the decades, ze had become enamored of the place. It was akin to zir own self - beautiful and desolate, deceptive, red, and steeped in death. Compared to the mortal hurry-scurry of New York it was very quiet and restful, and ze decided that ze would return here after the current play had run.

At the end of one crevasse was the place ze sought, the marks on the walls of the courtyard, the floors and beams a language long extinct, but yet effective. Rox called it the House of the Summoner, for whomever the inhabitant had once been, he now lay mummified in his robes at the bottom of a staircase. He was still ensouled but too salted with magic for anything to touch and survive.

Almost anything.

Except a demon.

And the canny old fellow had taken care of that eventuality, too. His home was to demons as a spider's web to a fly. What it had taken, in those times, to bring in meteoric metals, ingots of purified silver, and even entire slabs of salt, Rox had no idea.

However, after all that preparation, all those precautions, and what happened? The Summoner fetched himself some tea one day, tripped on his fancy robes, fell down the stairs, and died of a broken neck and back. Ze stepped carefully over the body, and summoning a ring of keys from zir scythespace, applied them in a given order to an elaborate door under the main stairway of the home. A flashlight from the same origin guided zir down the stairs into the heart of the web. And there hung zir fly - bound in strands of sky-born metal, in a sarcophagus of nearly solid salt, in a room with pure silver walls as thick as zir body.

If the decades between Ciel Phantomhive's reaping and zir capture of him had been unkind, the decades between then and now had been even more so. Sebastian, or Malphas as he preferred, was starving to death.

"Poor Sebastian. You hanged yourself in expectation of plenty, and see where you are now." In the cold LED of the torch, the sunken-eyed form appeared dead already. "Alone. In the dark. Starving. Dying. It's a balm to my heart."

"Grell… mercy… you have won… I will serve you…" Sebastian did not even open his eyes. "You hold my Name-"

"There was a time, old chap, when I would have thrilled to hear it." Hadn't she been a silly creature then to be carried away with such enthusiasms. "However, the truth is that you have nothing to offer me that I would want. Time, being the river that it is, has washed it all under the bridge and out to sea."

Out of Scythespace, ze pulled the props ze required for the last act.

"I'm truly not interested in your service, nor with your history would I be fool enough to accept it. Your nature is your nature, after all." A roll of silver leaf, atomizer of water from the depths of a glacier, and a large bottle of silver-fumed borosilicate glass all took their place on the edge of the sarcophagus. "But an artist I retained finished a my farewell gift for you somewhat early, so here is our parting kiss."

The last piece came from zir scythespace, and she held it between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. It shone and refracted an otherworldly azure in the light, like the ocean in a Dzigursky painting. If it seemed to have a lift of its own within the facets, one might allow that to be said. It was, after all, a part of a human soul, though only perhaps a dozen frames.

"For such a short life, his record was so bright. I almost regretted taking this portion - though I believe knowing he was properly collected was a comfort to Elizabeth."

Sebastian's lips parted, a sound of desperate hunger rising from his throat as his eyes dragged themselves partially open and fixed on the soul gem.

"It was only the last of his life. He was already dying, but what an exit!" Rox leaned in. "It was so naughty of me, but I had to take this small trophy. A little trinket of our adventures, dear Sebastian."

Removing the glass stopper from the bottle, Rox dropped it in - and it splashed in a scum of black liquid at the bottom. The scent of sulfur and rot whiffed from the neck of the bottle and Sebastian's eyes opened the rest of the way, nostrils widening in alarm at the scent.

"Close it! Close it!"

"Oh, do be quiet. Yes, it's an imp bottle but - like you - they're all but dormant from hunger." Zie wrapped a bit of silver leaf around the ground joint of the stopper. "This is going to hurt, but not as much as you've hurt me."

With a precisely calculated blow, Rox rammed the stopper through Sebastian's chest wall, the silver and pure glass boiling the flesh around it, but allowing zir to obtain a bit of heart's blood before pulling it out.

"There we are." The silver on the stopper began to run as Rox slammed it home and sealed the bottle shut. "No need to be nervous. I've rehearsed this extensively."

"I will serve you faithfully, Grell. However, wherever, and whenever you say. I will serve without question or deceit-"

"Ages too late for that." The darkness rose from the bottom of the bottle, obscuring the gem within as the uncountable imps scented food. "I'd love to tell you my plans, dear, but I've spent so much time on you already."

Ze set the bottle between his feet and picked up the glacier water, spritzing it on the inner lid of the sarcophagus. Rox had never seen a demon fear before, and it made zir smile.

"Your blood is their aperitif. They're awake and hungry, and they know what food tastes like. If they manage to breach the soul gem, they'll gain enough power to break that bottle and there you are like a big, tacky Las Vegas buffet." With a Reaper's strength, ze hefted the carved salt lid as easily as a mortal would lift a cup of coffee. "Consume the soul gem before the imps consume you and Sebastian's contract is fulfilled, and Malphas 'free' within salt and silver, for whatever it gains you before the imps eat you whole."

"Grell. I can give you anything you want. I can spread kingdoms beneath your feet, make William Spears love you as flowers love the sun in the sky. I am Malphas and I-"

"Give me back Eric Slingby, Alan Humphries, and Ronald Knox." Silence. "I thought not."

Malphas closed his eyes. "All this? For them?"

"No. The dead are dead - this is my revenge alone. Farewell, my Dark Prince." Ze placed the lid gently, the water sealing the slabs of salt together. "I will inform Pytheas of your probable demise."

Ze sealed the sarcophagus, then the chamber, and then the staircase behind zir. Each key in order locked the massive deadbolts in the meteoric iron door - and a squirt of Gorilla Glue in each keyhole sealed the lot.

And then it was done.

Rox stepped over the body of the Summoner, eyeing the soul still locked within the dried flesh like a fly in the amber of a long-dead tree.

"Exit the Red Juliet, stage right, with dignity and grace."

Then ze Stepped into the ether, leaving Ubar to sun and shadow once more.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.
> 
> Alan closes in on his final week of induction phase and anticipates a break. Rox has a visitor, and some explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this took so long! The block seems to have been broken, and I'm hoping to get back on a regular posting schedule. Thank you one and all for your patience!

"Good morning, Alan." Andrea's favorite patient had settled himself into the therapy bed, Kindle at his elbow, and holding in his lap a box of… oh, no. "Cake pops? Alan."

"Cheesecake pops!" The cheery grin heartened her. He'd been struggling lately, and it had been hard to watch, able to do little else than prepare to pick up the pieces. "Chocolate covered, even."

"Alan, tell me you didn't have cheesecake pops for breakfast," she scolded. Whoever ran that place on Pearl, they had a sweet tooth. Carmine had dusted off the Bowflex in the basement because of the cookies. And there really was something different about Alan this morning. Then it hit her - the knit cap still on his head. His hair. 

He caught her glance and the grin faded. "It was kind of a rough weekend." He took off the cap to reveal a short buzz cut. "Some friends took care of me when I lost it."

Sometimes you had to hug the patient, because the patient was a person who needed hugging. More than that, Alan wanted hugging, leaning into it. "I'm so sorry, Alan. I know it's not easy, even when you're expecting it."

Alan rested his head on her shoulder quietly for a few moments before he spoke. "They took good care of me. One of them did my buzz so I didn't have to go see my barber with it."

"You're doing really well, Alan. You know that, don't you? Every week your bloods are improving." Andrea rocked him, just a little. It was so hard to encourage someone in this kind of situation. You didn't want to give false hope, but sometimes too little support was deadlier than the disease. "If nobody else is going to give you all the rah-rahs you deserve, I will."

Alan's return hug was strong enough to squeeze the breath out of her. "Now you get two cake pops," he said.

"Tsk! And you didn't have those for breakfast, did you?" One of them had a little tag that said 'Red Velvet' - ooh. Her that was her favorite. "And you do have some healthy snacks?"

"I had buckwheat pancakes with peach-and-maple-pecan topping, and a mustard-green and mushroom omelette cup with caramelized onions and pancetta." Alan recited the list smugly as he took off his flannel shirt and chemo shirt for her. "And fresh orange juice."

"I had scrambled eggs and cheese in one of Annabella's sippy cups." Her mouth was watering. It had been a hassle to get the kids moving this morning, and there had only been time to nuke something fast to eat in the car. "I'd be smug, too, if I had a breakfast like that. Was it from that Pearl Street place? Carmine picked up that white seafood lasagna dinner on Friday and it was amazing. Even the nonnis were impressed."

Hm. There was something else behind the breakfast preen. That was a look-what-someone-did-for-me preen. The warm tone of voice was a giveaway. Oh, my. Alan had met someone he liked. Andrea would bet her minivan on it.

"What?" Alan went just a little pink. "What's that look for?"

"Okay. You're in a good mood, smug even, you've put on a half-pound, and… who is he? Is he nice?" He'd better be nice to Alan, or she'd bust him into itty-bitty fish-food sized bits. "He cooks, too?"

"I… what? Wait a second. What makes you think… and… and… I don't know what you're talking about, Andrea!" 

"Your new friend." She palped his shoulder and down his arm. Everything normal. No puffiness, discoloration, or tenderness. He was immunosuppressed, and didn't really seem to understand what that meant. "The one who made you that nice breakfast."

"Oh, wow. You take the gold in the Leaping to Conclusions event!" He took off his flannel shirt and unbuttoned the panel of his chemo shirt. "Wow. Seriously. Wow."

"Sh. Stop flailing." The protocols for accessing the portacath went smoothly, Alan's protests notwithstanding. "I'm only saying that because you seem so happy in spite of things."

"He's a friend-friend, not a friend-in-quotation-marks friend." Alan then did a quick backpedal. "Friends. He and his brother are my friends."

"Okay, but the first 'he' -"

"Hush, you."

"You're blushing."

"I'm 28 and have no reason to blush. Or at least not about this," he huffed.

"But what if you did?" Andrea grinned as the blush bloomed redder. "Not a bad thing, right?"

"An. Dree. Ah. Ca. Pel. Lo." 

"Alan, do we need to have the 'How to Have Sex on Chemo' talk?" Because fairly often, the sick person was desexualized - reduced only to their illness and the requirements of the illness. Intimacy and tenderness were often casualties when they were most needed, and personhood became patienthood. "Because you can still have sex, you know."

He stared at her with huge grey-green eyes and scarlet cheeks, then put on his headphones. "I'm not listening. Lalala."

"First class adulting there, Alan." She gave him a double thumbs-up. "Top-notch."

"Lalalalalalala-"

Oh God, he could be silly. "I'll put the printout in your bag."

Alan's eyes bugged out. "There's a printout for this?" he sputtered.

"I thought you weren't listening." A look at his Kindle confirmed that the music wasn't even playing. 

"You're terrible." 

"Alan, seriously. Sex and intimacy are not off the table if you want them on there. A hollering good-"

"AN. DREE. AH." Alan crossed his arms. "I'm telling Carmine."

"Alan? We have two kids together, I've been married to him for ten years, and been his girlfriend since third grade. He knows." It was funny. Sex and desire was normal, even for sick people. It was healthy, and a good sign. "How do you think we got the kids?"

Looking into the box of cake pops, Alan selected the Red Velvet one and held it out to her. "I promise to read the printout," he said earnestly. 

"And it's time for me to hush." She accepted and unwrapped the bribe, biting into the chocolate coating. "Oh… that is sensational."

It was amazing, rich, and tasted like a perfect Red Velvet cake - with the addition of graham cracker crumb crust cupped around the creamy filling. It was three perfect bites of decadence and she even dragged her teeth down the popsicle stick to get the last bits. 

"Yeah, the chef at Pearl Street is pretty amazing. Before I met him, I figured they had a whole bunch of chefs working in rotation." 

Oh, yeah. There was that tone - warm and resonant - and the look. Alan was going to need that printout in a hurry. And rubbers. Maybe she should leave that bit up to Carmine. "He cooks like an angel or a devil. It's hard to say which."

"Devil - he'll argue with you all day about seasonings. I'll bring you a pudding cup on Friday and you can dip the cookies in it."

"You and your sweet tooth." The line was clear and she gave it a flush as they debated the nutritive values of cookies and pudding. His phobic reactions to the needles were easing up, for which she was grateful. "What did you bring for snacks?"

The snacks somewhat mitigated the cookies and pudding, though she had a laugh over the Sriracha-spiked "Lava Nuts" and Alan's blush.

"I'll take your bloods and be back in a few." She took the blankets off the warming rack and spread them over Alan. "Comfortable?"

"I'm good. Let me know, okay?" 

He wanted off the filgrastim so badly. "Your ANC's been improving steadily."

"It would be great if I could drop the filgrastim for my week off." 

"How's the pain been doing? Is the evening dose helping at all?" And there was an immediate guilty face from Alan. "Oh, Alan. Tell me you haven't been skipping-"

Alan reached in his bag and set something dark and wrapped in waxed paper on the table. "Um. It's medicinal."

Andrea nearly cracked that most chocolate was medicinal before it dawned on her. "Oh! Okay, this changes stuff a little." The doctors fretted about the theory, but Andrea was primarily interested in results. If he was sleeping well, eating well, and putting on some weight, she'd do everything in her power to make sure he could continue. "From this weekend?"

"The person who gave it to me used it primarily for PTSD, but I was having that meltdown. Andrea, I slept for hours! I wasn't sick or cold! I ate so much food, too."

"Those are all good things, but they can increase uptake on some chemotherapy agents and-" Alan handed her his Kindle and looked smug, all the research was in charts and bullet-pointed lists. "I'm going to have you bucking for your RN, Alan."

"Look, they were willing to chance that reaction between the vincristine and the filgrastim. And they've been willing to provide me with other drugs with a proven record of being addictive." He was trying out his arguments on her first, and she had to agree with the points. "They all but shoveled Oxycontin at me even before I started chemo."

"I know, and I'll back you on this, but they're going to worry about their licenses to practice. And I will tell you upfront that they're going to trot out lines about risky street drugs and no real research." Alan pointed to the tablet, jaw setting. "I know, but you're going to have to make your case. And this is covered by medical confidentiality, so stand your ground."

Alan sighed. "But you'll back me up?"

"Of course I will. I'm more interested in results than in theory, and if the result is more restful sleep, more eating, and more weight gain, then I'm all for it." Finishing the blood draw, she flushed the line again. "I'm more concerned with what works for my patients and what helps them. If this works for you, you know that I'll have your back. Just-"

"Just what?"

"Be careful. I mean you're getting it from a reliable place, right?" That worried her. Medical marijuana was a long way from being functionally legal anywhere in the tri-state area, despite laws on the books. "Not from some shady guy somewhere, right?" 

Alan laughed, "You are such a mom. I'm getting it from a guy named Louie the Fish over in Red Hook- Hey! Be nice to the cake pops!"

~

Ze though that ze'd feel better about it. All things considered, putting paid to Malphas/Sebastian's long tab ought to have been a relief. Rox didn't feel relieved. Ze just felt every last minute of two hundred and thirty-odd years. For zir kind, that wasn't even considered middle-aged. Certainly there was a feeling of satisfaction to it; the arrangements since capture had been painstaking. One slip and Rox would have been demon-chow, Sebastian having starved himself for so long. Now that being would most likely be food for his own kind. Imps were often cannibalistic, and would peel even an adult demon down to the clean bones in roughly a minute.

Instead, ze felt… empty. As if it was just another thing to check off the list. Pick up the dry cleaning, clean the toilet, kill a demon, pedicure at 3:00 - buy eggs on the way home. So, yes, it was satisfying. Ze'd made a plan and followed it through. You go, Rox!

Yay. Whoopie. Now what? Go ink some ass antlers?

Since ze'd cleared the day in anticipation, ze couldn't even do that.

So, instead ze made herself a cuppa, queued up zir favorite movies, and-

There was beautiful black-and-white butterfly with green spots on her windowsill. Well, that child always did have the most lovely manners right up until she tried to run you through with live steel. 

"Only you would be so polite, Elizabeth. Goodness. Did Will tell you how to find me?"

With a soft fuff of air, Elizabeth Phantomhive morphed her form. Wings resolved into the black-and-white of the modern-cut Dispatch uniform and a pair of lavender-pink wire-rims. 

"Don't be silly. I nicked it from his ledger."

"The demerits will be epic, and so will the overtime, Dizzy Lizzie." Rox opened the window so that the Dowager Countess Phantomhive could slide through. "Will's going to give you seven shades of hell."

"I'm his Dispatch manager, so he can kiss my bottom parts in Fortnum's window, though I'm terribly glad that he found you."

Rox could feel the smile crack on zir face and ze hurt all over again. "He's not."

"Yes, he is. And I told him that he ought to have been run through for that comment about fixing it."

"You're terrible. I love it, but I hope that if you're kicking him that hard, that you're fucking him, too." 

"Your missive was most exacting, before you ran off on me, and I have kept to letter and spirit, you may be sure. And it's Cordelia now."

"Call me Rox, then?"

"I shall, but I have missed Grell."

"She's missed you, too." Oh, fuck, was ze really going to blubber? Yes, ze was. Perhaps it was only fair that having seen Elizabeth at her worst, that Elizabeth see Rox a train wreck. "I killed the demon. I wanted to feel better about it than this."

"Oh, Rox. I'm so sorry." Eliz- Cordelia reached out and gently stroked zir hair. "What it must have cost you."

Alone of all of them, Elizabeth had never judged zir as fool or as foe. Even on the Campania, Grell had not been more than a target to her. Ze appreciated any woman with a such standard of professionalism, as well as such ferocity as to attack a god. And for a mortal, Elizabeth was very pragmatic, having simply regarded the death of Angelina as a mercy killing that spared the family from horrid disgrace. As an adult, she had even gone so far as to rewrite her aunt as a brave doctor trying to track down Jack the Ripper. Trust a duchess to understand expediency. 

Living alone was just no good when you had to melt down. There was nobody to pick you up from the floor, wipe your tears and snot, then make you a hot cuppa. Most mortals were good at it; Cordelia was no exception. It had been a long time since anyone coddled zir, either as Grell or Rox. 

"You won't tell William, will you?" Rox cupped a hand around the big mug of tea, and nibbled at a slice of tart. "I'll understand if you do."

It took a couple of bites of tart - Eric had bloody well outdone himself - and a few sips of tea for Cordelia to turn that over. 

"Sebastian would have consumed Ciel's soul, and you stole it away from him. I am completely, eternally grateful to you for that. I loved him, you see, and I still do." Her smiled wobbled but it was a smile. "Love does not stop because someone is no longer there to love. The possibility of his soul's ending grieved me more than the certainty of his death. I owe you more than I can ever repay, and you are aware I am a great repayer in like kind."

"I did my job. I'm a Reaper." Was. Ze was a Reaper. "I wanted to die when they made me an outcast, Cordelia. You were the only one, the only person who spoke for me."

Crying in your Prinzeregententorte was disgusting.

"And I still would, and I will. Come back. Come home with me. Please."

"I can't. I've just found them and they're such a mess and I buggered it up so badly and I won't lose them again I just can't-" And 'run-proof mascara' zir ass! MAC had some explaining to do. "I have to bring them home, and make sure they come back to us." The mascara made an awful mess of Cordelia's shirt, too. "Sorry-"

"It washes off." Cordelia pulled a jar of cold cream and a flannel from her scythespace.

"It will be a dead giveaway. He'll know you've been to see me." However, Cordelia a century on was rather formidable, and she'd have to be to manage the Dispatch. 

"He's not a demon, Rox. He's a man being clobbered by his own late-arriving clues. You may name him without having him show up and eat you for dinner. Hold still."

"It's cold cream. It will make my freckles stand out." The problem with self-healing flesh was that not only did ze need to redo piercings from time to time, but freckles would not stay bleached. "Do you know what I spend on foundation?" 

"Sh. You look like a panda." 

Rox sighed and closed zir eyes. "You changed your name."

"Yes. Rachel named one of her daughters Elizabeth, Edward named my first-born niece Elizabeth, and my grandson Francis named one of his daughters Elizabeth. I was going to family gatherings with a dozen Elizabeths, Bettys, Lizzies, and even Buffys." 

Oh. Rachel. Born in 1894. "Rachel?"

Cordelia's hands were gentle, swabbing the eye makeup from Rox's cheeks. "She passed in 2010."

"Lizzie, I- I just can't imagine how you must feel." To most Reapers a name change was not a big deal. They changed names over the courses of their long lives, some Elders had long since forgotten their original names. But for Lizzie to stop being Elizabeth and become Cordelia? "I didn't even think that she must have-"

"I collected her myself." Softly said, with a well of pain under the words. "I brought her in, and I thought it only right to see her on. It was peaceful, and she was so very old."

Reapers came from the Origin, Never mother, never father, never child - never to know the pain of reaping one's own flesh and blood. But for the Reborn, old lives and old ways were not easily left behind. For Lizzie, she could be Grell this time. Heavens knew ze had the shoulders for it.

Goodness, they were bloody weepy gits.

"I've missed you." Rox stroked her hair. "Oh, how I wanted to see you grow into a fearsome reaper!"

"Come home," Cordelia repeated. "I'm the Dispatch manager, and I can reinstate you."

"You'd catch so much hell, and not just from William-"

Cordelia expressed her opinion of Upper Management in terms that neither Grell not Rox would ever believe that Elizabeth Cordelia knew, much less would think or speak. However, in terms of cursing, perjoratives, and scurrilous speculations, the Dowager Countess could have fried a lead ingot in five sentences. She did indeed know the word 'arse' and a rather more scandalous number of others, too.

"We don't have mothers, love. I don't think that's possible-"

"I just want you back. This lover of yours can come, too." 

"And that, poppet, is where the complications come in. I think you're too young to remember, so come sit on my lap and I'll tell you a tale-"

~

When Andrea came back in, her grin was amazing. "Guess who has normal ANC?"

Alan found himself surging up out of the recliner and shouting, "Yes! Yes!" Waving his arms in the air like a lunatic at a Rangers game. "I am awesome!"

Good news. Finally some really, truly good news. And after hugging Andrea, they had to go through the palp and protocols again but he was better! He was getting better! The brief nap during the infusion and another on the ride back home made him feel better instead of groggy and confused, though the aftermath of the infusion was as miserable as ever.

"But just one more chemo day and you have a whole week off!" Alan told himself, the hot water loosening the muscles in his neck. For someone who hated to vomit, he did a lot of it lately. "And next time, eat the brownie after you leave the hospital. It doesn't do any good when you're puking it up."

A whole week of no chemo, hopefully no filgrastim, and no ativan or prednisone. He could do things and go places! He could go out to the Bronx, and spend a day at the botanical gardens. Or he could go uptown for a visit to Museum of Natural history, or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He might even take a ferry somewhere, just to go. A whole week to himself before the next phase began sounded good. He could get his feet under him again, instead of lurching back and forth, trying to keep his equilibrium. 

He could get things done!

Well, he could get things done after recovering on Saturday and Sunday. Then he had four whole days to use as he saw fit. Turning off the shower, Alan pulled himself to his feet and reached for his towel on the warming rack. Maybe he'd do one thing per day. He could get a bunch of snacks to take with him and do four things he really wanted to do. Wrapping himself in his bathrobe, Alan padded into the kitchen and went to the fridge. Something easy for his stomach was just the thing before bed - almond milk and a little bit of non-medicinal brownie. That would be great. He took his treat back to bed, and tucked himself in. He was going to be fine - all he had to do was get through Friday.

He spent the next two days honing his medical cannabis arguments, spending evenings on the phone with Andrea and on the computer with various sites. 

"Did you know that there are over six thousand - that's thousand - research papers published in the last three years alone, and over twenty thousand extant?" 

"Alan, I am going to send you to nursing school." 

"I happen to think I'd be a very good nurse." Alan paused and considered that. "Research type, maybe. I'm not good with people. I'm good with numbers."

"Okay. Give me the arguments again." Andrea spoke over the sounds of three dogs, two small children, and a pair of grandmothers. "I've worked with almost all of them, and I can tell you exactly how they're going to respond."

"All right." Alan gathered himself and began his opening statement. He'd had a little more than a week to compose what was essentially a thesis and hone it into something he could use on a bunch of highly conventional MDs. 

Andrea know where the buttons were, he had to give her that. Hospital politics, funding politics, research politics, Andrea had her fingers on every pulse there was in that building. "Are you sure that your name isn't Niccolo Machiavelli?"

"Borgia, actually. Those medieval Italians got around - easy to do when your daddy's the pope," Andrea deadpanned. "What are you doing to do with your week off?"

"I was thinking some museums, maybe the botanical gardens." There was a very long sigh on the other end of the phone. "Andrea-"

"Alan. Listen, please. Your therapy is suppressing your immune system. I know you want to go out and do things. I know you have cabin fever-"

"I just want to get out of this house, to go somewhere aside from the hospital." He was desperate, as a matter of fact. It was almost claustrophobic, how he felt at times.

"But right now you are so vulnerable, sweetheart. Norovirus, herpesvirus, even the common cold can turn into something that could really harm you right now." Andrea's voice was gentle, but the words hurt. "Your ANC is up, yes, but you need to please, please be careful. You couldn't fight off an infection, and the drugs that could help you do it would delay the second phase of your therapy."

"I need out." He didn't mean to speak as intensely as he did, but it came out raw and desperate. "I need to feel normal. To go somewhere that isn't the hospital or my apartment. I'm suffocating."

"Okay. I understand that. Sunday or Monday?"

"What?" For a second, he had no idea what she was asking him.

"If you have your heart set on Tuesday or Wednesday, I can switch with someone, but I really think you're going to need to rest up for Friday. No joke, Alan. It's not called 'intensification' for nothing."

"No. No. You need your days off, Andrea."

"And you need someone who can show you the ropes of traveling with cancer. Where do you want to go?"

"I am not asking you to do that-"

"You didn't, Alan. I offered."

It rattled him. "Do… do you really think that it's necessary?" 

"Yeah, I do. I don't think you're ready to solo yet, okay?"

He wanted to snap at her, but reined himself in. This was her area of expertise. "What I want to do is kind of boring."

Andrea laughed, "Alan? Gimme boring. I need boring in my life. Boring is wonderful!"

"I wanted to go to the New York Botanical Gardens-"

"That's not boring. That's fun!"

"I should have known you were a fellow nerd when Carmine told me about the Ghostbusters." 

"Oh. He is gonna die," Andrea gasped.

"Come on, Janine was a Ghostbuster, too." Alan let his temper smooth over. Andrea was right - he didn't really know what immunosuppressed looked like in action, whereas she unfortunately did. "Let's go on Monday? That way you don't have to switch because of me."

"I think that they're closed Monday. I can switch a Tuesday, then since Carmine has Daddy Duty that day, we can take the whole day before I have to head home." There was a jingle of keys and the sound of a door. "Just a sec. Going to the Mommy Room."

"I finally get to see the legendary minivan!" Alan had to admit he was curious. "Why don't we meet up here, then provision at Pearl Street?"

"Does he do breakfasts like that one all the time or just for you?"

"All the time. I'm nothing special." And he was not blushing. Eric and Ronald were just exceptionally generous people. Wait a second. "You're not saying anything. Loudly."

"Mhm."

"Andrea. It's not like that."

"Mhm."

"Oh, Lord. Listen you-"

"Am I arguing? No. I'm not. You're arguing with yourself."

Alan sighed. "He's just a very good person. Compassionate."

"Mhm." This time she added, "And you think he's cute."

"He's not cute." Masculine. Butch as hell. Very bearish, when you got down to it. 

"Hot."

Alan had to admit he'd never had a confidante when it came to his sexuality. Andrea was his sassy straight girlfriend. "Are you sure you're not a gay guy?"

"Sh. Don't tell Carmine."


	16. Interlude: Eric and Rox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric and Rox, pure porn, and they like it like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, 16 is coming, but this one was just for fun.

The buzz of the tattooing pen filled zir ears as ze shaped the new motif. Butterflies. Beautiful black and white butterflies with nuclear green spots. Butterflies, the symbols of the soul's transformation. Eric was zir willing canvas tonight, the butterflies rising from just over the root of his prick, wrapping to the right over the flange of his pelvic bone. Around and up his back, following the inside curve of his shoulder blade, the butterflies ascended to the roses on his shoulders, alighting to feed on the nectar of mortal blossoms. Finally, in invisible UV-ink script among the butterflies, "Media vita in morte sumus."

"Pretty Man, you are a work of art." Stark naked, tied to the chair, and in a state of bliss, Eric opened his eyes and gave zir the most goofball smile. "And you're as high as a kite on endorphins."

"Surfing it. Amazing. More," he rasped. 

"Gorgeous. Insane. Voracious." Rox picked up a lidded cup of orange juice and slipped the straw between Eric's lips. "Suck." Eric drank down a good amount of the cup and then flexed against his bonds when ze kissed him. "Let me dress the new designs." 

That boy knew how to distract zir, but Rox took a moment to step back and admire zir work. Cordelia had been an inspiration. Rox imagined that if ze ever raised a child that ze would feel much the same pride. After all, it was ze and dear Ronnie-that-was who had taken Elizabeth to the Origin. While the transformation was the work of She Who Spins, the will to survive that Rebirth came from Cordelia alone. Newly widowed, a new mother, wounded, and dying, the butterfly burst forth from her mortal cocoon and thrived. 

"Let me see?" Eric asked. "You were on fire, Rox."

"In a moment." A Reaper's touch could heal or kill, and Rox exerted a little extra to speed up the healing. Already the one just over his pubic bone had stopped seeping. "I do have a delicate touch, do I not?"

"And a kinky canvas." 

"I've created a horny little monster." How could you not slap his ass? Rox did and it felt so good ze did it again. "Stop distracting me, you satyr."

"Or you could just fuck me right here."

"I give the marching orders, Pretty Man, and the fucking orders." Ze dressed and covered the tats with her own formula of beeswax and aloe, giving a grope to his locked-down bits. "Behave or I put it in a cage until Saturday."

"I always behave."

"No lightning strikes in my studio, libertine." The last butterfly was covered and Rox used her fingers to tease some of his fauxhawk into a pair of horns. "You're just so cute when you're all rammish and mouthy."

"I can do other things with my mouth. Get a little closer." Trash-Talking Eric was Turned On Eric. 

"Do I need to tape it shut? Or should I smack your ass like a bongo player on Red Bull?" Ze body bumped him. "Or to I need to put your mouth and ass in the kitchen and make you work?"

"Fuck you." Overbright eyes, flushed cheeks, and a sneer. "Make me do jack."

"That's it, boy." Whoopie! "You need me to lay down the law around here."

Eric loved to play rough, even when he was doing what he wanted to do. Who knew that he had such a cop kink to match the service kink? The thing about Eric's service kink was that making pancakes, being a bath boy, or sexual services were all on the same plane. Rox never had a bottom who would get get off on orders to make elaborate sweets and Officer Friendly's tender attentions equally. It was fun and a little fattening, especially when Eric was in the mood to spoil one. Ze needed to get back into swinging zir scythe.

Restraints sent Eric to the moon, and being restrained and then moved was the equivalent of an endorphin keyboardsmash. Cuffing his upper arms to his torso, ze snapped a lead onto his collar and marched him into the stairwell. It was time for a visit from Officer Friendly. 

~

There were times when not being able to keep his big fucking mouth shut had a good side. God. Real chains and bungee cords. Rox nailed every kink he had as if ze'd put them there zirself. And there were titties. Eric was a gold star faggot, but was going to trade it in if he couldn't admit that titties were fun. Rox's were cute. And since he had time to think, what with being on his knees and chained to an oak bannister as thick as his forearm, Eric found that liking titties did not make him less of a fag, it just meant he liked titties on Rox.

"HEY, COP! You going to keep me tied up in here all fucking night?" Rox was not afraid to play rough and Eric relished it. It was as if his skin was waking up, and everything else that had been muffled for so long. "I've got rights, you know!"

"Pipe down, punk. You have the right to be slapped in the face with my dick." 

Officer Friendly strode into the stairwell, one of New York's finest perverts, and Eric reminded himself not to break role by drooling. Rox did something to motorcycle cop wear, especially those boots. Eric had previously enjoyed some rather fine copfucking in his time, but this was a whole new level. There were times when Rox was all about the femme, there were times when Rox presented masculine - those shoulders made Eric unf - and then there were times when Rox's gender was all about fucking up the binary. 

Like now. 

Pushup bras and a stiff cock in those blue pants. Hair tucked under the a motorcycle cop's helmet. Sunglasses. Handcuffs. Boots.

And the Nightstick of Doom.

"Good evening, Officer Friendly." Eric singsonged before adding, "You cock-knocking jugfucker."

Rox grinned, a mouth full of pearly whites as ze undid the chinstrap of the helmet and tossed zir herringbone braid free. "You perverted little shit. I need to give you the full force of the law. You go blasting through the city on that big blue crotch-rocket of yours-"

"With a perverted cop staring at my ass-"

"Breaking every traffic law-"

"Waving that nightstick around like a honking handled dildo-"

It was trash-talking, which not many people could do, but Eric loved it with someone who could play along with him. Good God, but he wanted to suck Rox off - that hadn't happened in a while, and it shook Eric to realize the trust that he placed in Rox. 

"It's funny, punk. I think you want to be dickslapped." Rox unbuckled and unzipped, revealing that Officer Friendly liked to wear panties to match zir push-up bra. "Pervert."

"Other pervert. We keep having his conversation, usually with that nightstick up my ass."

"Is that a wish or observation?" 

Eric was very busy appreciating Rox's dick under red lace. "I like things up my ass in general, so just mentioning."

"Are you a cocksucker, Butchy Boy?" Rox purred. "You're looking at the dick like it's dessert."

Now there was a question. That was something he hadn't done in a long, long time. For reasons.

"Eric?"

"Haven't in a while. Years, really."

"Ah. Gary."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to suck me?"

"Oh, fuck yes." Eric's mouth actually watered. He could almost taste it. 

"Then there need to be ground rules." Rox stepped close and lightly dickslapped him. "If you're going to suck my dick, you're going to do it right."

Something inside of him relaxed at that. Trust Rox. It was okay. Fifteen minutes later, there was a pile of rejected flavored rubbers on one of the stairs. 

"They all taste like cough medicine."

"You are a picky, butchy, bossy little brat."

"It's not my fault that most of the guys who invent these things have never had a dick in their mouth."

While Rox went to search for an acceptable alternative, Eric had plenty to keep him busy. The cross-piece for the nightstick was well up his ass being nicely unyielding to his prostate, bungee cords wrapped around his hips and thighs to keep it in place, with the indignity of dripping minty-fresh lube chilling down the back of his balls. He could hear Rox grumbling around the bedroom, then the kitchen. 

"Damn it, you're such a mouthy brat, Eric. You need a dick in your mouth to cork you up."

"I'm a fucking trained chef, so I'm picky about what I put in my mouth!" 

And maybe a little worried, too. 

Rox stomped back into the stairwell with a packet of polyurethane rubbers and a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup. Fucking yum. Hot-eyed, hard-cocked, with motorcycle cop pants sliding down zir hips. Yes. Oh, fucking hell yes. However-

"That better not be Hershey's, goddammit. Fake-ass chocolate flavoring and HFCS doesn't fly with me, Officer Friendly."

"Fox's U-Bet - it's even Kosher for Passover and it's my last bottle, you twat." Rox tucked the bottle under zir arm, and opened the condom packet, rolling the rubber on over a squirt of lube. "Prima donna attitude. Mouthy fucking power bottoms-"

"Shut up and gimme the dick." Yes, pushing it, but it was like flying with the endorphin high from the bondage and tattooing singing in his blood. "You push that thing good, Officer Friendly."

"I'll give you the dick, boy. Squeeze that nightstick like the cock-hound bottom you are and I'll fuck that filthy mouth of yours instead of your ass." Eric's reply was forestalled by a mouthful of dick and chocolate, Rox's fingers tight in his hair and syrup bottle at the ready. "Be a good boy and I'll cut your cock cage to let you come on my boots. I saw you looking at them. Kinky, wicked, mouthy harlot."

Eric thought he was probably lit up like a slot machine hitting a jackpot. His worries disappeared in a flood of endorphins and lust.

"Suck me right, boy. You can take it deeper. Don't be lazy - throat me." 

_Lazy? LAZY? My ASS lazy. Take you to the root lazy. Suck you like your dick's a cherry popsicle lazy. Make you hold on to the bannister lazy. Lazy? Make you come like a fucking fountain lazy._

"Look at you, a butchy power bottom on his knees with a pair of bollocks on his chin." Ze tugged his hair, pulling him close until those nuts were indeed on his chin. "Open wide!"

Oh, yes. It was on! Hair pulling trash talking wet and messy blow job with the shot in the chocolate streaked rubber and Rox and fucking hell dammit Red and zir knives and his dick. Ze was going to give him a fucking vasectomy if he sneezed at an inopportune time one of these days. The blood rushed from Eric's head to his freed dick fast enough to make him dizzy. 

"Cute little cocksucker, where's your gag reflex? You did such a good job that you get to shoot on my boots - which you can clean later." Rox nudged the leather shaft of the boot right against his cock and then dickslapped him again. "Fuck the leather. Hump yourself off."

"Evil fucker." He wasn't going to last long, his muscles quivering from tailbone to the root of his dick. "Goddamn it why do you use frosty minty lube I swear to fuck that my asshole's numb-" Good. So fucking good that a dry hump on black leather was a little juicier than expected. "You kept me off until you popped and now you w-want to fffuck watch-"

His hips hitched and this time Eric had to bow his back against the heated bliss firing in his brain and loins. 

"Your asshole isn't going to be numb tomorrow, Pretty Man. You're not going to be sitting without a fond thought for me for a few days." Ze pulled his head up by the hair. "Faster. Fuck my boot faster, make a sticky mess all over it, you wicked harlot of a boy."

This time Eric groaned, clutching his thighs around Rox's leg and humping without shame, the crosspiece of the nightstick giving his prostate heaven and hell with each thrust. 

"Fuckgoddamnityouevilbitchohhellyeshellyesrox-" It was an orgasm to take the top of his head off, to pull every muscle in his body into the same helpless motion. Rox anchored him, stopping the panic before it could root, bending and catching his mouth in a fierce kiss. 

"Good boy. Good Eric. Oh, you sweetheart. See? There it is. There we go." Ze crooned, drawing zir booted leg back and wiping down the leather with a handful of Lysol wipes. "It's all right. See?" 

Somehow he got his lungs working again, brain blank with shock as ze unbound him. The nightstick and binds when into buckets of hot, soapy water just beyond the door, and ze had to support him speechless and rubber-legged into the bathroom. The chocolate and lube and… contagion washed down the drain, leaving him clean and shaking. Ze tucked Eric into the red satin nest of zir bed, orange juice with a bit of ginger grated in putting his head back on straight. 

"Okay?"

It might take a while to answer that. Instead Eric just opened his arms in appeal, and Rox slid under the covers and into them, kissing his chin, cheeks and lips. 

"Sleep, Eric. Sleep, lovely lad. I'll be right here when you wake. Shh."

A last thought crossed his mind as Rox's "shh" sent him to sleep. Oh, God. Please don't let me fall in love. I'm so fucking awful at it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan's heading into a one-week break from chemo therapy.

Ronald had to laugh at his brother this morning. Whatever arrangement was going on between Rox and his brother, it had good results. Ronald was starting to see the Eric he remembered, not the silent and traumatized man getting off a bus at the Port Authority, or the loner and hermit that Eric became as he struggled to recover. Now his brother was singing in the kitchen to the Ramones 'Rockaway Beach.'

Whatever works, Ronald thought with a smile.

"Your chef's on a tear." A guy in a sweet-looking three-piece wool was picking up a large order, a car and driver waiting at the curb. "Here you go."

Ronald swiped the black Amex through. "He's getting creative in there. There's going to be some goodies Friday morning."

"Yeah, we're really familiar with the cookies where I work." The guy paused, fiddling with the pen before signing and adding a good tip. "I don't supposed you'd remember one guy, but his name's Alan-"

"Humphries. I do remember him, he's in here about two or three times a week. One of our favorite customers, actually."

"My name's Chip Winters, I work at Bridges, in legal. Is he… I know he's sick…" 

"Oh. Yeah, well. I'd say he's as okay as it gets under the circumstances." Ronnie wanted to guard the man's privacy, seeing as Alan was about as hermity as his brother. "I'd pass along some good wishes if anyone wanted to send them. It's been rough."

"It's cancer? Leukemia is what I heard." He picked up the box of four dozen cookies. 

"Yeah. It is." Ronnie put the receipt in the drawer. "He's doing all right, but it's cancer."

"He's really well-liked. Decent. Not a lot of guys on the street can say that. I'll let people know to drop off good wishes here?" 

"I think he'd like that. Just make sure that there's nobody sick or anything like that. Chemo hits your immune system - you can't fight things off." 

"I will, thanks." 

The guy left, the driver opening the door for him, taking the cookies and placing them carefully in the passenger seat. The song changed and Eric boogied right along, the most delicious smells wafting out of the kitchen. Might as well go and see what the Full Metal Chef was cooking. Eric's cooking jams were always epic, and stepping into the back revealed that Eric was in Carnivale/Mardi Gras overdrive, with an array of gustatory hedonism just starting to be placed on the long steel tables. 

Empanadas. FUCK YEAH.

"Hey, bro! Gimmie!" Ron walked in making grabby hands at the goodies. "Oh, wow! Is that a chocolate tres leches?"

"Fuck off, Beer Brat. I'm still making breakfast." Eric hefted his strudel dough rolling pin menacingly. "Or you'll be brewing with a concussion."

"Feed me, shithead. I want pancakes." Ronald could do bratty, too. "How's Rox?"

In answer turned and lifted his white t-shirt and showed Ron the new ink under dressings. "Ze was on fire, baby bro."

"Man." Ron leaned in. Those were some awesome butterflies - the detail was mindblowing. "Ze has a great touch. They're hardly seeping at all." 

"Ze's like the Bernini of ink." Eric lowered the shirt, still glowing like a Klieg light. "Wait until you see the reactive script."

It was entirely possible that his brother was falling in love. "You and Rox-" Thunderous scowl from Eric. Alert! Forbidden territory ahead. Abort mission! "Shutting up now. Pancakes."

"Will pancakes keep you shut up?"

"Until lunch, then I want some of the shrimp empanadas."

"How about a swift kick in the ass instead?"

"Could you not murder each other until I get my larder stocked? I'm hungry!" Came a plaintive call from the front of the store. "Ronald, stop teasing your brother. Murder in the kitchen is against the health code, I'm sure."

"He's being a dick!" Eric bellowed.

"I'm a fast learner!" Ronald grinned, shouting right after Eric. "Want some pancakes, Alan?"

"Sure, I'd love some!"

Eric was reaching for his throat and Ron backed up with a grin while shooting Eric the finger. 

"Be right there, Alan!" Ron called. Ooh. Eric was giving him the glare of death, and Ron turned and skipped down the hall to the front of the shop. It wasn't often when he could score one of his brother, and he smiled sunnily at Alan's reproachful look. "Pancakes will be ready in just a few."

"At this rate, you'll be ducking flung pies at the Shady Pines Rest Home." Alan was piling extra goodies on the counter as Ron took the loaded bags out of the cooler behind the counter. "Don't tell me he starts it, either. You're a horrendous tease."

"I know. He's just fun to poke." Cocking his head, Ron gave Alan a full looking over. "You look better - you're color's much better. How are you feeling?"

"Much better. And I've been able to kick one medicine, save the opiates for really bad days, and wean down the ativan." Setting the panniers on the counter, he continued, "Now I have an argument with my doctors tomorrow over the use of certain unauthorized medicine, then a week off chemotherapy entirely."

"How are your docs going to take that?" There was a sound of Eric starting up the Kitchenaid mixer down the hall, and the scent of bacon. Yes! "They could make trouble."

"Medical confidentiality. Don't worry, I'm not letting them on. If anything they'll think I'm getting it from a black market dispensary." Alan loaded the panniers as Ron rang him up. "I'm just looking forward to the week off."

"What are you going to do? You're going to like this - it's cake, and fruit, and pudding, and cream in a parfait." Ron tucked it in the bag and ahead of Alan's reaching hand. "Nope. You'll spoil your pancakes. Hey, there was a guy in here asking after you. He said he worked in legal. I told him you were doing pretty well, and he wanted to drop off some good wishes."

"I… I'm not the biggest social butterfly in the company. That's a little surprising." Alan rubbed the tip of his nose with a finger. "Wait. Italian suit? Buffed nails? Metrosexual hair?"

"More like a corporate with an up-brush." Ronald had a moment where he wondered why he was noticing the guy's hair. Fucking orientation issues. "Good suit. Italian, I think."

"I know him. Has a thing for Brioni. I prefer Kiton or Canali." He smiled. "Suits. Italian menswear. I fell in love with Italian suits when I was taking vacations in Italy."

The tune changed to the Ramones singing 'Beat on the Brat' and Eric cranked it. "He's all frisky this morning. Sorry."

"It's all right. I'm glad he's feeling good." And if Alan knew the reason for feeling good, he kept it to himself. "He wasn't really going to make pancakes, was he."

Ron found that from somewhere, he could still muster the grace to blush as he lifted the gate to let Alan in. 

~

Breakfast with the brothers was a delightful thing, and Alan was quietly worshipful over peach pancakes with buttered pecan topping. The food preempted any peacock displays, though Alan noted in Eric the aftermath of a very good night - no doubt with Rox Sharp. The pancakes were perfectly fluffy with diced peaches evenly throughout, and Eric quizzed him relentlessly about Italy. 

Especially seasonings.

"I was a kid when we were there." Ronald said, dumping more bacon onto his plate.

"Yeah, but you were really little Ronnie. Four or five, maybe." Eric flipped more bacon onto their plates. "Naples, then Bologna."

"Lots of spaghetti, that's what I remember."

"Amalfi Coast, Lake Como, wherever there's water. I love to swim." Alan smiled, the memories sweet, but when or if he could go back nobody would say. "I've put them on my bucket list."

Shit. He nearly bit his tongue off in chagrin, but while Ronald looked shocked Eric only nodded. "Yeah. There's a few places on mine, too."

Alan swallowed, then breathed a little in relief. Of course Eric would have a bucket list, too. "Where do you want to go?"

"Amsterdam. Paris. London. I really loved Seattle, too. And there's Hawaii - Kauai." Eric reached out and shook his brother's shoulder. "Not going anywhere yet, Beer Brat."

"I know. Just - I don't like to think about it." Ronald sighed. "Death shouldn't win."

"It's not winning or losing, Ronald." Alan patted the young man's shoulder. "Now, getting to the botanical gardens on Tuesday… that might as well be on my bucket list." 

Eric grinned. "Breaking out?"

"Hardly. I'm being chaperoned." Alan sighed. "I sound like a brat. My chemotherapy nurse thinks I'm not ready to solo yet."

"The one with the driver husband?" Ronald asked. "He's become a regular for dinners. He asked if we did kid food."

"Yeah, that's Carmine. He's Andrea's better half. She's a tyrant, but she loved the red velvet cake pops."

Eric, however, had his mind elsewhere - looking off into the middle distance. "I can do kid food. Kids would love my food."

Alan knew that look - it was the look of someone about to have a brilliantly misguided idea. Risk management time. "Everyone who knows anything about children via significant actual and extensive exposure to children raise your hands." No takers. Now to change the subject. "I was hoping to provision for the trip, though. Stuff for energy and maybe a picnic." Andrea was sacrificing a day off. The least he could do was bring goodies. "And cookies."

Eric eyerolled. "You and the sweets. I bet the first thing you did when you were eighteen was eat ice cream for breakfast."

Actually, the first thing he did at eighteen was figure out how not to freeze to death after being thrown out on his ass in the middle of January. "Wrong. Little Debbie Swiss Rolls and hot chocolate. It was too cold for ice cream."

There ensued a surreal discussion about the merits of Little Debbies versus Drakes Cakes, TastyKakes, or Ronald's 'I don't think you've ever heard of them' favorite, Dolley Madisons. Eric declared them both idiots and offered to make them some ramen noodle and Velveeta mac and "orange salty crap that they can't call cheese."

"It's retro food, Eric!"

"It's crap!" Eric hooked a thumb at Alan. "Other than mass-produced snack cakes, this guy knows his shit." A pause and a gleam in those very mischievous blue-green eyes. "Except about salt and fennel."

Oh-ho. Frisky Chef wanted to play? Alan grinned. It was like using a laser pointer to tease a cat. "The classic presentation of bouillabaisse-" 

"Is the presentation of the authentic Marseille dish, not the fish-water 'classic' tourist version-"

There were good points to arguing with Hot Butch Honey. It was like mixing porn with the Food Network and the Travel Channel. One of the best points was that there was going to be a tub of bouillabaisse broth, fish and shellfish, plus the classic rouille and bread awaiting him on Friday. Eric was on the phone as he left ordering the fish and seafood. There was more than likely enough fennel in stock.

At home, he went through his emails, and was rather surprised at the volume of interdepartmental emails in his box. And then he saw that they were all good wishes. Get well soon cards, memes, LOLcats, cute animal videos. People were saying they missed him, and... and he didn't have any facial tissue. 

"Need to order that." 

Alan sacrificed one of his pocket squares, wiping up the tears and blowing his nose. For a long time, he sat and reread the notes, saving them one by one to a new folder on his desktop. They missed him. They thought about him. They didn't want to intrude. They hoped he was getting well. They hoped he'd come back to the offices soon. They had advice, admonishments, and more cute animals videos than he could watch in a week. Then he set up the webcam, put on his knit cap, and started the video.

"Hi, everyone. That was… it was just a lovely surprise and I can't thank you all enough. I'm in treatment, and I'm doing well. Thank you for thinking of me, it means so very much.  
Thank you. And Chip, watch out for those cookies if you're not keeping up with your racquetball, all right?" He paused. "It's been rough. And I miss you all, seeing and talking with you every day. I just want you to know that. Good night, and everyone have a good weekend."

It wasn't something he'd thought about. You didn't appreciate the everyday things in life until you faced the prospect of losing them. He uploaded the video to his YouTube account and then sent the link to everyone - all 115 accounts who'd sent him notes. Then he opened up his files, settled back on the couch with his laptop and began to prepare is recommendations into the latest prospective acquisitions. Alan put his headset on, opened Mindmap, and got to work.

Case one: Sometimes very stupid people have a lot of money, very little sense.

"It is not my job to save people from the consequences of their own stupidity and greed." Alan dictated, talk converted to text. "They dove into this one against the best advice we had to offer, so let them take the bath they signed up for. The bailout's an insult and the C-levels would piss it away on their own salaries. I'm putting in a 'Hell no' on this one. I'll provide alternative purchasers, but these tools need to be out of a job. Report attached."

Case two: When cooking the books at least spend the money on someone who is capable of producing well-cooked books.

"They have massive liability in the form of two highly toxic properties they're trying to unload before the EPA comes after them It's been the same shell game since I was about six. They're running out of shells to hide the toxic pea under. Whoever ends up holding the bag on this one may be in bad shape depending on the outcome of Estate of John Ray Wheeler alias Monongahela Salvage v. EPA. Not recommended. Full report follows."

Case three: He hadn't seen such blatant bullshittery since his undergraduate Modern Lit paper on Ayn Rand.

"And they are in violation of the FCPA. 'Cost of doing business' and 'related expenses' my ass."

It was odd, he was working about as much as he did at the office, but in less contiguous blocks of time. There were times he had to put the laptop aside and sleep, and other times he'd be busy in the middle of the night, working and wondering if he was the only person awake in the financial district. 

He fielded phone calls from his superiors and in addition to his regular Thursday meetings, he was chided for making people sniffly. Everyone was concerned. You need to eat more. Darleen in accounting is going to knit a sweater for you. People knew about the place on Pearl Street now - thanks to Chip, the cookies, and the inability of anyone in legal to keep their mouths shut about anything until paid to do so.

"And after tomorrow, I have a week free from chemo and the other drugs. Apparently they want to see what my bounce looks like." Alan sipped cautiously at a cayenne-spiked lemonade of Eric's invention and almost smacked his lips. It was just tart enough and had enough of a kick to make his eyelids sweat. "After I recuperate, I'm taking a few days to go places that are not the hospital."

Well, make that one place and see how it goes, but he wasn't going to say that. He still had some dignity, here. He signed off with everyone's good wishes, and then just lay back on the couch and stared at the tin-tiled ceiling for a while. He was dreading tomorrow, and he was dreading intensification. Andrea had been honest with him about that first day of phase two, and had promised to stay with him for the intrathecal. 

The very idea of a spinal made him want to throw up. The one he'd had in the emergency room had been so much more than enough. 

"Okay, Alan?" He addressed himself, "Go over your presentation for tomorrow, do some yoga, then eat and go to bed." He didn't need to wind himself up.

Setting up the laptop, Alan went through the medical cannabis presentation, looked over the hand-out folders, and brought it in at ten minutes. That would leave enough time for the arguments… hm… question and answer period. Packing up the laptop, he left it on charge and put his things in order for tomorrow. Snacks and juices, a bottle of water, and a small bottle of trace mineral drops - it had reduced his cravings for salt, too - slippers, Kindle. After a moment of hesitation, he added his chemo shirt, a flannel shirt, and his comfortable jeans. If he had to bring out the high caliber ammunition, he might as well look the part. 

"Full battle dress." He selected a Kiton suit in light grey wool, Bruno Cucinelli tie and pocket square, Harry's of London black wingtips, Moreschi belt, and a French-cuffed Finamore light blue dress shirt. "But what to do about the head?" 

Alan considered this in the mirror. The fade was holding, and he looked ridiculous in a hat - of which he didn't own any. Maybe he ought to invest. 

"Then again, considering where else you're losing hair, I wouldn't have such a pity parade about the stuff on your head." Losing one's pubic hair was disconcerting, and a little embarrassing - even if nobody else knew. He quickly tried on the suit, pleased that enough weight had come back that the clothing didn't hang on him. "Okay. Even for a cancer patient, I look good."

And in the morning, he needed every advantage he could get. To say his team was not on board with this was understating the case, but damn it to hell he was going to turn them around or pitch them fucking well overboard.

In the morning he entered the room, set up his laptop, and started the second the last of his team was seated. Research. Evidence. Science. Twenty thousand extant papers about the efficacy of C. indica, C. ruderalis, C. Sativa, and their native cannabinoids in various clinical settings and there's no research? Alan hit them with everything he could about the body of research on the drugs they were giving him.

"Six hundred extant papers on oxycontin." Alan let his voice drip icicles as he went through the drugs and proposed drugs they'd given him. He slapped the folder down on the desk. "I am out of patience with the lot of you. You asked for evidence, and facts, and science, and there it is. It's on the internet, freely available to medical professionals and researching scientists such as yourselves. Sticking your fingers in your ears and going 'LALALALA!' is not going to cut it with me. If I can do my homework on this - and regain five pounds - then so can you. I expect better."

Alan was aware that he was standing beside his chair, and had just read off a whole table of physicians. Did he care? He checked. No, not a bit. 

"If you have legitimate, quantifiable concerns, then I expect whats, wheres, whens, hows, and whys. Not to be a human beta test, and not to be kept in the dark." He let his voice sharpen. "Most of all, I do not expect you to look like a class of undergrads who have figured out that they're going to have to work. I was a TA, ladies and gentlemen, and I know the look. Do better. Next order of business?"

Alan sat down and composed himself. The suit had been the right call. 

"It's still illegal," Dr. Chowdree said. "It's a street drug-"

"I obtain the substance from a highly reliable botanical geneticist, who is well versed in the medicinal properties his products." Eric needed a doctorate - that notebook of research and Eric's own notes were a few steps, duct tape, and a thesaurus from being his dissertation. "I have the utmost confidence in the science." 

"From black market dispensary, Dr. Humphries?" Dr. Millard sniffed. 

"Five pounds, good sleep, reduced pain, reduced nausea, and less gastrointestinal distress without the side effects and risk of addition presented and documented by ativan and the vicodin." Alan rebutted. "Let's not mention the oxycontin, or the side effects of the antidepressants you were ready to shovel at me. I'm willing to be the beta test on this one; informed consent has always been a biggie with me." Zing. "I don't like being an aftermarket statistic, especially when it involves surprise catheters."

"I would be interested, Dr. Humphries, in measuring your C-reactive protein, erythrocyte sedimentation rate, and plasma viscosity to map any reduction in the inflammation." Dr. Kelsy, his rheumatologist, spoke quietly as she pushed her glasses up. "The effects you're describing need to be validated by the numbers. If there's a significant reduction in your C-reactive and ESR, I'll back it."

Sometimes, all you needed was just one. He couldn't say that everyone was aboard with this, but first Dr. Kelsy, then Dr. Oh, then Dr. Chowdree were enough to hammer the others if not into compliance, then into shutting up and going along. Then they all shook hands and smiled while thinking in four letter words, and everyone was happy. Alan felt as if he'd swum twenty laps, but by God he'd won this one.

He went to the chemotherapy floor, feeling lighter of mind and heart than he had in a while. Only to get razzed for his suit by Andrea.

"Fancy, fancy, fancy, Alan." Andrea mock-fanned herself. "Carmine said you were sporting drop-dead threads today, but I had no idea."

"I paid him in cookies and pudding cups to keep quiet." The Peacock Brothers were rubbing off on him. Alan put a bit of a preen and strut in it. "A good suit is to men what lingerie is to women - it only serves its purpose if it ends up on the bedroom floor."

Andrea cracked up, having to sit in the chemo chair until she got it under control. "You are terrible. I like it."

"I told you that you were a gay guy in a girl suit." Alan took off his cufflinks, tie and tie tack. "I brought my chemo wear. Just let me get changed."

"All right. I'll come back in a few minutes, Mr. Hot Stuff." She pulled him down to kiss his forehead. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

He hugged her hard. "Couldn't do it without you, Didi."

"You are one of two people on earth who gets to call me that." She hugged him back. "Get changed, I have to print out new marching orders."

"Okay. And I brought you some goodies, too." The scrambled egg in sippy cup did him in. He brought her a real breakfast. "Scoot. I'll be all settled in when you get back."

Andrea scooted, and Alan got undressed, emptied his briefcase and folded the suit, shirt, and accessories into it. The shoes went into their felt bag in his backpack, and the slippers came out. He left the silk boxers and socks on, then changed into his chemo clothing and settled into the chair. He'd eat the brownie before she started his infusion.

Andrea came back in. "New marching orders from Dr. C, Alan. He's lightened up on the ativan, due to a 'new medication.' I take it you won?"

"I at least hammered them into going along." Alan sat up for the usual exam. "Dr. Kelsy was interested enough to say so."

"She's really new, but I hear good things about her." Andrea palped his arm and shoulder, looking for infection, tenderness and swelling. "Excited for next week?"

"So much! I just want to go out and do things." That it was complicated by the dread of intensification he left unsaid. "Even if it's just spending a beautiful spring day in a garden."

Andrea chuckled, smiling behind her mask. "You have the zoomies."

"I do not. I have cabin fever." He lay back as Andrea prepped his portacath for the blood draw. It was embarrassing, but he still was not good with needles. "It's been a month of not going or doing. I miss it."

"What time do you want me to pick you up on Tuesday?" Andrea asked as Alan closed his eyes. He knew it was not possible, but he could feel the portacath in his body as his bloods were being taken and it hit him funny sometimes. "I was thinking about nine."

"I was, too. I really want to go do something before it starts again." The thought of a spinal tap with chemo going into him made him put his head down and try not to shake. "Sorry."

"It's all right, Alan. I know it's scary." She put his port right, covered it, then hugged him gently. "I've arranged with Dr. Chowdree to be with you all the way through."

"So I'm only going to think about the gardens. We're going to have a great day." Alan said firmly. "And I'm picking up goodies from Pearl Street."

"They've been taking good care of you." Andrea racked the little tubes of blood. "Carmine brings dinner from there at least twice a week."

"And I brought you breakfast!" Alan reached down and pulled up the backpack. "Buckwheat and peach pancakes, scrambled eggs with spinach, walnuts, and goat cheese, plus bacon."

Andrea literally squealed. "Why can't a girl have two husbands?"

~

William had to wait for General Affairs to send Maintenance to repair his office, then had to go to Cordelia and apologise. She was not jealous, that was mortal silliness, but she was enraged with him on Grell's behalf and had made her points with exceptional force. It was also indisputable that he had left her with incomplete information by not informing her of the exact nature of Eric Slingby's and and Alan Humphries' deaths. The worst part is that she did have very salient points, and William felt like a pincushion and punching bag by the time she slammed the door.

The London Dispatch was quiet, with the staff walking very softly past the Dispatch Manager's office. Cordelia's Reapers toed the mark, stood straight, and listened sharp - despite being disorderly, rowdy, and libidinous off duty. In every way, they were exemplary Reapers. William gave three precisely-timed knocks and let himself in - against all the frantic, silent advice of the Dispatch staff shaking their heads and making frantic cutting motions with their hands.

"I provided you with facts, but not with vital details that included the involvement of the demon known as Sebastian, and your late husband, as well as Grell's role and my own in the undesirable outcome." One had to get out of the gate fast, or Cordelia would ride right over you. "I also admit to my own ineffectuality in attempting to rectify the situation with Grell, and I am not an arsebackwards and thudfingered idiot, and despite the outcome of a truly horrific misjudgment on which no actual malice was consciously predicated."

Cordelia rubbed a spot above her right eyebrow, giving him one of her particular looks. Will reached out and offered an awkward rub.

"You are still an idiot." But she took off her glasses and leaned into the rub. "Do you know what it takes to be angry with you?"

"You should have told me you wished to see Grell. There was no need to sneak into my ledger." The Dowager Duchess Phantomhive bore tremendous but unexpected loyalty to Grell for saving the family from disgrace, and for saving her life as she lay dying. "I understand some things, you know."

Cordelia sighed. "It's complicated, Will. There's so much between Grell and myself."

Angelina Dalles, the Campania Incident, Grell's persistent involvement with that demon butler, and the inexplicable decision to make Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Middleford into a Reaper.

Not that he could or should complain.

"Should I visit Grell again?" Will asked. "To make things clearer."

"Dearest darling, ze intends to tear your heart out and eat it. I would let things settle somewhat."

"That is a figure of speech."

"Are you sure about that?"

"... with Grell it is perhaps more prudent to assume the bloodiest interpretation possible."

"I told Rox that I wanted zir to come home." 

William let that sink in. "That, in light of Grell's previous exile, and his… her desire to eat my heart, would be exceedingly unwise."

"I am Dispatch Manager. I have sole discretion over my Reapers." Cordelia put her foot down to Administration as hard as he ever had. Meddling with the Dispatch managers was a good way to spend time regrowing body parts and vital organs. "Ze turned me down. At the moment ze feels too much responsibility toward the reincarnates, one of which is her current lover. As he was before, which you forgot to mention."

"I… am behind modern times perhaps. What is this pronoun?"

"You are one hundred and twenty-five years my senior - cradle robber."

"You were not in a cradle when I met you. As I remember, you were sticking me with a sword." And Will remembered it quite well; his first meeting taught him to never get between Cordelia and her intended target. "It was quite rude, sticking first and asking questions later. Hasty. Not to mention unsubtle and indiscreet."

"Shut up and rub, William."

William shut up and rubbed. His question would be answered in sideways fashion, some time later, no doubt. It was awkward, ungraceful, and perhaps hazardous to his person, but William did want Cordelia to return to his residence with him. Sleep was so much more pleasant when there was someone warm in bed. 

"The shift is over, will you not put on your coat?" he asked. 

Cordelia looked at him over the top of her glasses, amused. "William."

"I am attempting to remedy the serial situations in which I have not expressed myself adequately or clearly as to-"

Some kisses needed to come with a warning. 

And there was no need to crumple his tie.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good stews are simple in presentation, but can be highly complex - and sometimes a little more complicated than they seem.

Alan was muzzy enough that Andrea accompanied him down to the lobby and handed him over to Carmine. The brownie dosed with high-CBD cannabis kicked in some time after the benadryl and when he woke up there were a lot less in the way of warning signals that the post-chemo misery was incoming. Still, he ended up sleeping again on the way downtown, awaking only when he remembered bouillabaisse - that was today!

Only the Frisky Chef could take his mind off chemo.

"Carmine? I need to stop by Pearl Street. My bouillabaisse!" Alan wrestled himself upright and blinked. They were at Houston and traffic was packed. "I finally got Chef Hotshot to put his court bouillon where his big mouth is."

Carmine laughed and lowered the partition. "You've met the guy? I've met the steampunky club kid - Ron."

"That's his little brother." 

"I want to pick up dinner, so I'll come in with you. Are you going to be okay to eat?"

Alan assessed himself. "I think I am. I'll see how I feel in a couple of hours. But I am not giving up on the bouillabaisse."

"Got your pops?" 

Carmine avoided calling them Preggo Pops for the sake of Alan's dignity, but Alan's dignity would be far more offended by getting car-sick. He held up the little Altoids tin and rattled it. "All is well. What are you thinking of for dinner?"

"Didi wants some of the white seafood lasagne and a loaf of their olive oil ciabatta, but it's a little advanced for the kids." Carmine sighed. "They're in the 'cut the crusts off the bread' stage and 'I want spaghetti' stages. Oh, and Cheerios. We're going nuts trying to to get them to eat nutritious stuff."

"He does good food, but you're right about the kids. When I was little I was the same way, and I didn't suffer from malnutrition. Do they still make Flintstone's vitamins? That was my mom's go-to." Alan pushed himself up in the seat. Still no nausea, just the usual 'coming down with something' feeling. "Or is it Sponge Bob vitamins?"

"Flintstones. We're old school." Carmine craned his neck. "Parking fucking sucks right now. Want me to run in and grab the goodies?"

"Reverse order. Run it around the block and I'll run in." Alan tucked his wallet into his hip pocket, looking with dismay at the mini traffic jam around Pearl Street. "It's no longer a best kept secret."

"Partially my fault, I bring some of my clients by here. The food's so good." 

"Mine, too. I used to bring cookie plates every Friday - and someone missed that enough to track down the cookies. Here I go!" He was out of the back seat and squeezing between a double-parked Caddy and a Beemer with a single digit salute for the horns, then on the sidewalk and in the door. "Ronald, you're a bona fide Financial District thing. Sorry I'm late."

Ronald opened the gate and ushered Alan through, pausing in handing out brown paper Pearl Street Kitchen bags stuffed to the handles with comestibles. "Yeah, this is rush hour for us. All those dinners going out. Your driver called one in and Eric's got your bouillabaisse in the back."

"Can Carmine pull in around back? They're parking out there like they're auditioning for a new Mad Max movie." 

"Sure, I've got that order in the back anyway. Go on in - Eric's been hovering over that bouillabaisse like it holds the secrets of the universe."

The kitchen was a flurry with just one person in it, and Alan scooted to the side into the safety of the alcove. Pulling out his phone, he called Carmine.

"Pull into the alley around the back. Your dinner's ready to go."

Eric marked brown bags with a Sharpie, set one marked 'Capello' next to one marked 'Humphries' then bellowed, "Last batch, Ronnie!" 

"Eric, we're out of everything!" 

"Close it up, then!" Eric bellowed again in a voice that likely carried to South Street.

Alan took advantage of the maelstrom to look at the tab on the Capello's bag and hang a fifty on it, then open the top of his bag and take a look. He'd wait until tomorrow to eat it. Just in case. What was in the Tupperware tub at the bottom? Alan had one guess, and it started with  
'b' and ended with Eric Slingby, Hot Butch Honey Chef. 

He raised an eyebrow at Eric - who simply gave him a cocky grin and twirled a spatula between his fingers. "Dessert's a local specialty."

~

Eric couldn't say exactly why he did it. Jerking chains and mouthing off just came naturally. Mr. Twinkie looked a little pale and tired, but a bit of Eric Slingby's Authentic Homemade Smartassery perked him right up. 

"They've helped a great deal. Thank you." Humphries said, pausing then continuing. "Now, you normally do better than that jerking my chain, you big butch flirt."

Was that a return flirt? That was a return flirt. Eric grinned and gave a bit of a strut as he loaded the bagged dinners to go on the cart. "Yeah, you're feeling pretty good - all feisty."

"Why is it smaller people are always termed as feisty?" Humphries huffed, a twitch of the lips indicating amusement. "We can be just as hubristic as, say, highly skilled hotshot chefs built like their Viking ranges."

Eric preened, gratified his guess that Humphries flirted by argument was correct - and a little by the compliments, too. "I didn't know you were checking out my range."

There was an exchange of horns from the alley followed by. "Scoot it in, cutie. There's a cake in there with my name on it!"

"Blow me kisses all you want, Red - this is my spot!"

He and Humphries looked at each other. "Oh, Lord." "Oh, Lord."

"My driver, Carmine Capello."

"My tattooist, Rox Sharp."

Ronald spoke behind both of them. "My glee. Do it for the Vine, fellas."

Eric shoved the cart at Ronald, forcing him to juggle his phone. "Out, Beer Brat. Give those hungry people their food and then close it up."

"But-" 

"OUT."

Ronald outed. 

"Rox Sharp, tall tattoo artist, gives to queer youth and HIV-related charities, seriously avant garde with a car collection?" Humphries asked.

Eric nodded. "Tall Italian redheaded livery driver with two fussy kids and a wife who loves the white lasagna?"

"Exactly - his wife is also my chemotherapy nurse."

And then there was a whole lot of long, tall, and red with shoulders to make him unf in his kitchen. Even Humphries was a little round eyed. Rox in red ballet flats was maybe a half-inch shorter than Capello, and flipping zir long red braid. 

Eric raised his hands. "Ronnie said that Capello could park there, because he's driving Humphries who is picking up his classic and correctly seasoned bouillabaisse, and dinner for his own family."

You had to get the first word in when the braid flipping started, or ze would go all night. 

"Here I thought you'd started curating a collection of redheads." Rox sniffed. "Who's Mr. Long and Lean? Make some introductions, Eric."

"Bossing my ass around in my own kitchen. Behave or no cake for you." He'd pay for that later - hopefully - but his kitchen was his kitchen. "Right, Rox Sharp meet Carmine Capello, who drives for that guy over there - Alan Humphries. Capello, I'm Eric Slingby - I own and operate this nuthouse. Your white lasagna's ready and I did kid food. Humphries, this is Rox Sharp - my tattoo artist. Capello, that hipster dork over there is my brother Ronnie Knox who makes killer beer. Everyone out, Ronnie?"

"Yeah, and the cases are cleaned out. Man, what a rush hour!" It was just so cute how Ronnie would get all chirpy around Rox - little bro was sorting out his orientation issues pretty well. "There's a shitload of orders for Monday dinners, I have them on the iPad."

Eric took it and looked it over, then whistled as he added up the raw materials in his head. "I'll get the orders done tonight. Might have to make a few trips in the Snot Rocket." 

"I can't go. Have a date." Ronnie preened. "Stacy's in town."

"I thought you were going to Monica's." That boy and his dick. "And what about that girl from Velvet who was blowing up your phone?"

"She dumped me. I'm soothing my wounds." He looked at Eric with big puppy-dog eyes. "That new cheesecake in the fridge upstairs would be such a comfort."

Eric sighed - he was such a fucking pushover. "Go. Put the cake in a box and the box in a cooler bag."

Ronnie shot up the stairs like a bottle rocket, leaving Eric in the kitchen with two long-stemmed redheads and a short-stemmed brunet. At another time, under other circumstances, Eric would have just called it a three-course tasting menu - because wedding band or not, Carmine Capello was pinging his gaydar and he might be pinging Capello's. Or maybe he was just getting a thing for redheads. 

Rox was chatting enthusiastically with Humphries, very touchy with the fingers though, and Eric turned his attention to Capello. Capello flicked his gaze to Humphries, then raised an eyebrow at Eric. What? No way. Eric raised both of his in return and flicked his gaze to Rox. Capello considered that, then flicked his gaze again to Humphries and again back to Eric, this time with a more questioning expression. Eric shrugged uncomfortably. Even if the attraction was there, it was complicated by a lot of different factors. Time to change the subject. Eric checked Capello out, glancing at the wedding band. Capello gave a one-shouldered shrug and tapped his phone with the ring finger. Ah. Someone had to let him off the leash. Yes. Eric let his gaze slide to Rox, and gave back the same one-shouldered shrug. Capello smiled, a real one, and nodded. Loud and clear. 

"Let me know what the kids think of the kid food." He slid the bag over to Capello. "My baby bro was picky as hell when he was in grade school."

"I will for sure. We're just trying to keep them from rickets and scurvy at this point." 

"I survived on my mom's grilled cheese sandwiches, Campbell's tomato soup, Fritos, Captain Crunch, and Flintstone's vitamins until I was old enough to cook. They'll be fine." 

"What do I owe?" Capello reached for his wallet as Eric shook his head.

"Kid food's free because it's an experiment, and Humphries snagged the tab before you came in."

~

It was almost overwhelming. Zir lads. Zir lads were all here. It was a joy like sunlight and a pain like a scythe in the guts. Ronald was bouncing around like a gangly puppy. Eric was trading speaking looks with the lanky Italian redhead - that boy and his prick. And Alan. Rox removed zir gloves to shake his hand, knowing that William would have a flappy fit over it. If a Reaper's touch could stave off the Shadow or turn it away entirely, Rox was all for it. 

"So pleased to meet you, Mr. Humphries." It was eerie the way this Alan's hands felt the same as zir Alan's hands. "I've seen you at some of the Safe Spaces functions."

"How do you do? I remember the candy-apple red '62 Corvette you donated to last year's fundraiser. Two of my bosses didn't speak to each other for a week when one outbid the other."

"That was you who brought the big dollar bidders?" Ze left a lipstick mark on his cheek. "That's for bringing the deep pockets."

He was wide-eyed, but this was Alan - always a little startled with people. 

"All I had to do was dangle that car. That was the star of the show."

"And you know Eric and Ronnie well enough to have parking privileges. I am fascinated." Rox was not going to let on that she'd seen him passed out in one of the recliners. Ze walked zir fingers up his arm. "Eric's been hiding you."

He still had a lovely blush, stammering and disclaiming. "I've been… um… that is… Ronald and Eric are very good friends…"

Eric paused in his silent flirtation with the Italian cutie, who was making speculative glances between Eric and Alan, and arched an eyebrow at zir. Ze did have a thing for men who could Spock. Rox arched zir eyebrow right back and grinned. Eric was gearing up for a strop, and that was a good thing. 

"Behave, you." Zir Pretty Man grumped. 

"But I'm so bad at it." Rox purred back. "Alan, you have to assert yourself with this one or he rolls right over you."

"He loves to argue, too." Alan affirmed, looking as if he might be getting a little of his own back. 

"Pot to kettle, Mr. Wall Street Guy." Eric crossed his arms and shot one hip. Ze would have to have him pose naked like that - it was a good look. 

"He's a terrible tease, Mx. Sharp. Possibly one of the best chefs in Lower Manhattan, though." Alan hefted his bag and Capello watched the interplay. "Mr. Slingby, thank you for the traditionally prepared bouillabaisse. I shall have your feedback shortly."

"All right." Eric seemed to be parsing Alan again, communicating on another spectrum above everyone else, and Alan picked up on it.

"I'm fine. The new medicine has helped immeasurably. I look forward to a lovely feast and revisiting some fond memories." Alan smiled and it was as sweet and kind as spring. "No need to worry."

How many times had ze heard that before. 

Eric gave a too-casual shrug. "Might be better the second day. Lets the flavors blend." Alan gave Eric the 'I know what you're doing look' over the rims of his glasses and Eric returned it with a cocky grin. "The fennel is much more subtle that way."

"Hm. Subtle you say." The tone was deadpan, but Alan was trying not to smile. 

Rox watched them banter and flirt, feeling as if ze could close zir eyes and ze'd be back in the Dispatch with zir juniors once more. It was amusing that Eric and Alan fell so easily into their mating dances. Oh, ze didn't want to give Eric up - he was loving and affectionate… and mortal. 

Oh, dear. 

That, again.

Alan made his farewells, as did the hunky driver - was Alan hitting that? He'd been flirting a mile a minute with Eric, with a wedding band on his ring finger, too. Maybe Eric was getting a thing for tall, sexually versatile redheads with shoulders. There would be interrogation this evening. 

"Look at you, you flirty thing. All aglow." Rox pursed zir lips and looked him over. A month in zir care had worked wonders. "Goodness, you looked positively hungry."

Eric blushed. Right on target. "Shut up."

Rox advanced, stalking gracefully. "I believe you called it "test driving" - right?"

"No cake for you." 

"Your ears are just scarlet, Pretty Man." Hooking zir fingers in the front of his trousers, ze reeled him in. "Tell Boss Rox your naughty thoughts."

"Tasting menu. I was thinking tasting menu." The poor dear facepalmed, the ears deepening to a shade just short of aubergine.

"Mmm. You are so missish for a pervert. It's quite the thrill." Rox insinuated zir fingers into the waistband of his underthings. "You can't bang everyone, dearest. It takes practice - you have to work up to it."

"Hey! I am not going to-"

Ze kissed him before he could say something stupid. Oh, the stroppy thing kissed zir silly while giving a sharp smack to zir ass in a way that made her squirm happily. "Bossy, butchy brat. Is Ronald out for the night?"

"In a few. He's getting changed and raiding the fridge." Eric did not let go of zir rear end, nuzzling and nibbling at zir ear. "He's got a hot date that requires cheesecake."

Oh, my. The Pretty Man was trying to seduce zir, kissing so sweetly. "You stroppy thing. You just want to get in my knickers."

"Or get you out of them-"

"You've locked down my toy." Ze did love cutting the silicone cage off, though. 

"You're a boner hazard, Red. I'm making an innocent Béarnaise and bam - boner! It's like puberty again."

Rox laughed, pushing zir leg between his. "I think you're just making up for lost time. You've been celibate for so long."

He wrapped his arms around zir. "It's like everything's waking up again. I can't tell you what it's like. Like being dead and coming back to life, maybe."

Would zir kisses and zir touch add years to Eric's life, or could they hold back the sickness enough to matter? Oh, bloody hell, ze was falling in love with him and ze was so awful at it.

He broke the kiss and nuzzled zir ear, giving a playful tug on zir earring with his teeth before asking, "Come upstairs?"

Eric's voice held a hint of a deep burr, and Rox felt zirself go a little weak in the knees. It wasn't fair that certain men just put zir brains right down into zir knickers. "You are sometimes a very bad man."

"I hope so." Then he had the nerve to kiss that spot on zir neck that made zir breath catch and her heart do flips. "Come upstairs with me?"

Oh, hell. Nuzzly. Kissy. Sweet as sugar and twice as horny. How long since ze had bottom time? Too long. "Yes." 

Ronnie was singing in the shower as they crept past the bathroom door and down the hallway to Eric's room. Brain in zir knickers. Right. And as soon as the door shut behind them, neither of them could get their clothing off fast enough. It was hard to retain one's dignity when one tripped getting out of one's own pants and knocked one's lover onto his bed. It was even harder to care about one's dignity when one's lover wrapped his arms around one and kissed one until one's IQ dropped ten points.

It made zir feel young again. Young and giddy, foolish and randy, believing that love- 

Oh, no. Not again.

Rox broke the kiss and remembered to breathe. "Eric, are you in love with me?"

It took him a moment to engage the upstairs brain and his eyes widened. "Why - are you in love with me?"

"No. Absolutely not." Oh, what a lie.

"Good. Me neither." He lied right back.

"Okay." One should keep the lies mutual, after all.

"All right." And the kiss made further liars of them both.

Rox broke the kiss again. "Rubbers. Now. Gimme."

"You don't have any?"

"I came for cake - not for nookie, cookie."

Eric started to get up, then paused. "Ronnie's still in the bathroom. What- No, wait. I've got it."

Rolling out of bed, Eric kicked his trousers in the general direction of the hamper and took an Altoids tin from the top of his dresser. 

"Breath mints? Hand it over." Ze held out a hand and he gave her the tin. "What kind of mischief-" Inside zie found breath mints, but also two little pillow packs of lubricant and two condoms. "You wicked little hedonist. This was in your pocket the night I brought you home. It's a booty call kit."

"Ronnie's idea." It was so amusing to make Eric blush.

"Yes, but who taught him? This is a big-brotherish thing to do." Waggling the box, Rox laughed. "Come here, Pretty Man. Let me get that thing off you. I want you very badly."

That was no lie. Eric being both sweet and rammish promised a very good time. It was with amusement that ze noted how he held his breath as she dispatched the silicone cage. Really, ze would have to come up with a more durable alternative if ze didn't want to keep denting his wallet with destroying the things. 

"Red, you're murdering my bank balance - I've had to start buying them wholesale in New Jersey." It was difficult for Eric to stay grumpy when he hardened that fast. Ze gave him a stroke that tipped his head back and made his hips flex. 

"You were saying?" 

"Dunno. More."

Ze tore the wrapper open with zir teeth, and unrolled the lubricated nitrile over the rosy head of his prick and down the shaft. "Hedonist. Harlot. I love your repressed urges darling, especially when I'm face down and you're riding me as if I have 'Six Flags' stamped on my arse."

"It's a pretty ass. Cute, even."

The nerve! Ze smacked his thigh. "You impertinent bastard, everything about me is ravishing, stunning, and flamboyant - I don't do cute."

Oh, that was an Evil Eric smile if Rox ever saw one. 

"Cuuuute." The big lummox cooed, crawling onto the bed and lying atop zir. "Like when your freckles get really bright when you're going to-" He laughed and nuzzled zir when ze pummeled his ass. "-come. You bite your lip when you're getting ready to come, and just before you do your freckles look like little bits of rose petals or paprika-"

"Bastard. Teasing wretch." Those muscles. That arse. Wrapping zirself around him ze exerted a little more strength to flip them both - but carefully, as mortals were delicate. "I want a fucking, Eric."

"Gimme the Altoids box." He rubbed his hands up zir thighs and hips. 

"You taste fine, Pretty Man. I like the places your mouth has been." Ze settled down on him, grateful for the results of a fresh sugar wax even if the application and removal made zir howl. "I like the way you use your mouth, too. Verrry talented cocksucker, you are."

"I need the lube for that cute ass, sweetheart." 

Eric's endowment was on the thick side of generous, and as much as zie wished for different bits with which to enjoy him, the plain truth was that getting in bed with Eric made zir not care. He made zir shameless whatever gender ze sported that day. Ze handed him the box and pursed her lips in disapproval of the lube.

"Boring, Eric. With all the flavors out there you pick plain old water-based in a longneck?" 

"It's versatile! Besides, I have to keep Ronnie stocked up. That boy is all over town." Eric opened the top of the tube with a flick of his thumbnail. "I'll have you know that my asshole and balls were minty-fresh for three damn days after my last visit with Officer Friendly and the Night Stick of Doom."

If you couldn't laugh while having sex with someone, you shouldn't be fucking them - and Rox was laughing so hard that ze had tears in her eyes. "You bitch about swamp balls all the time. I gave you nice mentholated fresh balls. M-make up your mind."

"Like that?" Eric's grin was wolfish and hungry as he slipped the elongated tip of the lube packet into zir, sending a surge of heat from brain to balls. "Red, you look so good…"

"B-bastard brat wicked bloody ahh strumpet-" Zie took his prick in grip, positioning zirself and then slowly easing down. "Hedonist, you look so good on your ba- oh on your back!"

"Talk mean to me, lover." Eric groaned, his hands tightening on zir hips as ze opened for him. "Ride my dick like you stole it."

"Mouthy service brat, this is my pretty cock to play with." The stretch was lovely, making Rox shameless to scratch that itch. "If you pop your shot before I tell you to, you'll have it locked down for a week."

Oh. Oh, perfect. Ze didn't mind zir bits when Eric's prick pressed to zir prostate and the wicked thing rocked his hips just so. Lovely pace on the lad, that was for certain. 

"Wanna make you pop, Red. Make your freckles stand out and play with your titties." Eric rasped, the flush on his cheeks and the bright gaze showing what ze missed when he'd have zir from behind or on top. "Fuck my hand, lover. Ride me hard and make a mess-"

"B-bossy butchy boy, gimme that dick!" Oh, spare a thought for poor Ronnie, getting an awful earful as Eric took a grip on zir hips and bucked. "Lazy-arse power bottom, the only thing you move is your mouth-"

The slats of Eric's bed creaked in protest, and Rox couldn't help zirself when he made a perfect rub. Eric lifted zir knees off the bed as he met zir coming back down. "Lazy? I've give you lazy-"

"Work that ass for me, you stroppy strumpet-"

"Fuck you, kiss me when you talk trash with that mean mouth-" 

He got his feet on the headboard and a grip on her arse and ze couldn't kiss him because she was too busy telling him to fuck zir harder.

And then he had a hand in zir hair and kissed zir just as perfectly as he fucked and- "Fuck oh fuck Eric don't you-"

"Come for me come for me Red a little more come on want to feel you coming on my cock-"

It took everything ze had not to bite and to keep him from seeing zir lose control of zir teeth, but oh ze made a mess of his belly and chest when ze arched and zir toes curled and the heat bloomed in zir loins and zir brain-

Oh, ze did hope Ronnie had left for the evening. 

Then he kissed zir - warm, perfect, sweet, and loving - and ze kissed him back. It wasn't lying if you didn't say anything, after all.

~

It was good to awaken next to someone warm, William thought. Cordelia, like a cat, took up a great deal of room as she sprawled, hogged the blankets and in general slept on him. However, since he slept like - no pun intended - the dead, it didn't matter how Cordelia slept. William slept through pretty much everything. Well, everything except Cordelia nuzzling his ear, segueing into her preferred method of waking up, and embracing him with the passion of a goddess. Whatever he had done right, however he came to have her in his life, William was deeply grateful - and not just when she'd lie with him.

But his life was bliss when she would.

He should tell her.

"I should tell you that ah I am d-deeply fond of you and not just when you are willing to hmn have me in your bed-"

Cordelia opened her eyes, fingernails digging into his shoulders. "William - now? OH! Yes there like that, William now!"

Now-? Mmmnow! Cordelia's heels drummed on his arse as he gave her what she was asking for. Sweet and slick and strong around him and her fingernails and there was no call to do to to him such violence especially when it drove him to fever pitch and it was a good thing that reapers did not need to breathe because the bliss and release was such that he could not. They did quite make a wreck of her bed, but it was pleasant to lie entwined with her afterward, kissing the flush from her cheeks. Cordelia's fingers stroked the nape of his neck.

"Sweet old soul," she murmured to him."What would I do without you?"

"You would likely experience less frustration that causes you to upend my office," he replied thoughtfully. "Though I must admire the level of terror that you have inspired in the Dispatch at the mere possibility of your disquiet."

"William?"

"Yes?"

"Rhetorical."

Then for reasons that would likely remain mysterious, Cordelia kissed him again. There were times when it was simply best not to question. 

"Will you see Grell again?" This Rox business and novel pronouns had him flummoxed. "And tell me this time instead of going through my ledger when I'm in the shower?"

"You would have been impossible over it, and you know it. I would like to see zir again, and to keep an eye on the reincarnates." Cordelia stroked his hair. "They were your family, William. I cannot think about what it was to lose all four of them."

"We do not have families as mortals do, Cordelia."

"I know, but they were anyway. I do want the whole story, William."

"It's complicated." And somewhat unflattering, actually. 

"William."

Could he get out of this? Not without some damage to tender parts, he thought. Gingerly he lifted the lid he'd settled on the entire mess. 

Sighing, William began, "The events of which I shall speak began about the same time time as a concatenation of circumstances involving both your late Aunt Angelina's affiliation with Grell Sutcliff and the peculiar circus of murderers."

In the middle of his explanation, Cordelia began to quietly weep and gently cradled his head as if he were the one afflicted. So very strange. He could not understand it. Or why she would rain kisses on his forehead, and make the same noises to him she had once made to comfort their… her daughter as a very young child. His own cheeks were wet with her tears, of course with her tears, as he gently explained again that Reapers do not have families as mortals do, so how could he mourn the loss of them?


End file.
